The Pendulum of the Mind
by AvaJune
Summary: Tom's fingers slid across her skin as he pulled up her sleeve, feeling irregular bumps and scaring as he watched in fascination as instead of a dark mark, he steadily revealed rune carvings. His eyes flicked back to hers, watching her reaction to his touch. "I will give you this, witch. You are unbearably intriguing," he murmured. *Hiatus, Not Abandoned*
1. Prologue

**AN: Title comes from the following Quote**

 ** _"The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong." -CJ Jung_ **

**This fic is a time travel, HG-TR pairing. It has been an incessant idea that kept picking at my brain for some time. Tom Riddle is one of my favorite characters in the series, and one that I feel was never fleshed out in a very dynamic way. He was just so flat, so evil, and I honestly am still aggravated by the whole "born as a result of a love potion so cannot experience love" thing. It made sense in a story where he was a side character, but I found myself wanting to do a story where he was a more interesting, dynamic character.**

 **Hermione is another character that seems to have a lot more going on below the surface than we see. For one thing, she has a sort of vicious pragmaticism mixed with a truly unique sense of morality that does not play out as consistently as I'd like in canon. I'm in no way discounting JK Rowling's work, she's the expert after all, but I felt like based on her previous experiences, Hermione could have responded differently to the events in the Deathly Hallows than she did. Add in that in this fic we have an AU where Voldemort wins (sort of,) and we have a very different Hermione.**

 **Precautionary Warnings: This story will explore some mental health conditions, including PTSD and Anti-Social Personality Disorder. *This is not a redemption fic and there are no Mary Sue characters.* Tom may experience a partial redemption, but he is not a lost puppy who just needs the love of a good woman in this story. The relationship between our two characters will likely be intense, consuming, and unhealthy, at least if they were to seek out a mental health professional for an opinion. I will provide an author's note on chapters where it is coming but expect to see all the things that death eaters enjoy, including implicit rape, torture, murderous rampages, and violence for the sake of violence. My stories ALWAYS have a happy ending, but I don't guarantee that happiness for EVERYONE, just the main people. **

**Forgive me where some of my tropes are showing, not to worry, I will at least try to keep them to a minimum.**

Hermione knew, somewhere within herself, that she was developing an obsession and that it likely wasn't healthy. She could feel some pieces of her brain cracking, others strengthening and hardening, but the one overwhelming yearning that was beginning to fill her existence was the urge to understand exactly what happened, how the world got here, because it just DID... NOT... MAKE... SENSE.

For someone who thrived on logic and rules and the absolute certainty of specific scientific and mathematical laws, the current state of the world was distressing. Disturbing. Infuriating.

It defied logic on a lot of levels. People were supposed to act according to certain key personality flaws and strengths and, okay, she conceded that on occasion a person would deviate from the set of behaviors which they typically followed and, alright, technically the brain continued to grow and change until a person reached complete development at the age of 25 but-

People were people and their hangups and insecurities defined them and it was this fact, this certainty, that made them so incredibly predictable.

It was easy for Hermione to place people firmly in their designated categories based on their psychological makeup. Her parents were Dentists and the magical world largely discounted the whole science of understanding the human mind, but there was an awful lot to be learned in muggle textbooks on abnormal and normal behaviors.

Harry, for example, had avoidant tendencies and had shown rampant signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Ron had some obvious phobias (arachnophobia being the most apparent) and exhibited classic signs of undefined anxiety disorders. Luna Lovegood was schizotypal, Bellatrix Lestrange was histrionic. Malfoy was narcissistic and obsessive-compulsive, Snape was schizoid, Neville was alarmingly normal, and Albus Dumbledore was quite frankly so screwed up he defied diagnosis. These people, for the most part, fit their categories, they fit into pretty little boxes, and that made the world somewhat linear.

Tom Riddle was a textbook case of conduct disorder, followed by the usual Anti-Social Personality Disorder, and his behavior up until a certain point followed the patterns of someone with those designations to an absolute 't.' Then, something changed.

Riddle was never good, he was always a precocious boy with violent tendencies and a striking lack of empathy, but he was not insane. He was cool, calculating, and brilliant, but madness was simply not on the agenda. Sometime between the creation of his second horcrux and being brought back to life in a cauldron, he had positively lost his mind.

Perhaps it was the fourth or fifth horcrux, or maybe it was spending 10 years as an incorporeal spirit that did it, but whatever the case may be, Voldemort was barking mad and looking around, Hermione was fairly confident the way things were did not in fact match any of Tom Riddle's earlier, quite a bit saner goals. At least not any she, in all her research, was aware of.

It bothered her. The fact that her entire world had been molded on the back of a brilliant but now entirely insane wizard irked her to absolutely no end. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Hermione was aware that this was a strange facet to fixate on, but she had been alone for a year and a half now and was quite likely a bit mad herself at this point and she just could not, COULD NOT let it go.

Her entire life was ruined, her world broken, and the man responsible did not even get what it was he wanted.

When the final battle went to shit and everyone around her was dying, dying, dead, she looked around her and realized in a sort of numb appraisal that with Ron's limbs currently spread in multiple corners of a corridor and Harry unlikely to rise from the dead a second time, she was utterly and completely fucked. The invisibility cloak was in her beaded bag and as Voldemort made his speech, the same one AGAIN he had started to begin with before Harry heroically rose up and was promptly put right back down, she slipped further back into the crowd until she could slide the cloak on.

She had been hiding out in the caves above Hogsmeade for six months when she chanced returning to Hogwarts almost just for something to bloody do, and she was confused to find that the school was left exactly as it had fallen. Someone had taken the time to incinerate all the bodies where they lay, and that was all that had changed. It was shocking, she had observed in a detached sort of manner, that a man (Snake-man? Snake-thing?) so concerned with power and knowledge had left the headmaster's many treasures in his office completely untouched, the restricted section to its own devices, and the many hidden rooms of the castle to rot.

Whatever had not been destroyed in the battle was still there, as if time and space had ceased to exist in the place where once the great school stood. She had been studying the books in the library, brewing occasionally using the potion's stores, and generally devoting herself entirely to anything that would keep her brain busy for a year but recently she just could not seem to let go of the fact that Voldemort was by all public accounts (at least according to the papers she stole from Hogsmeade weekly) hiding out somewhere, evidently insanely paranoid that someone else was going to attempt to murder him, and he had forgotten every single long-term plan he ever had in favor of desperately protecting the one: immortality.

So, she mused to herself, the man (or man-like thing) was immortal (barely, what with only Nagini left, but still,) that was one goal made, but what about the other things he had aspired to? Not that she thought it was a bad thing, but muggles even in Britain were still largely unaware of the existence of wizards and therefore they had certainly not been eliminated as 'a threat to wizardkind' nor brought to heel. Furthermore, Voldemort was nothing more than a scary bedtime story anywhere outside of England, so world domination was out, and god-like status was certainly not achieved if the current lifestyle the Dark Lord was reported to have been living was anything to go by.

It was all so... pointless, then, wasn't it? The asshole had broken the entire system of wizarding England and had accomplished almost absolutely nothing. The rest of Britain was just sweat and blood and weeping while the conquering hero hid in paranoia.

It was a problem, Hermione repeated to herself thoughtfully for the hundredth or so time as she sat in what was left of Severus Snape's old potions classroom and ate her magically multiplied breakfast of rice and beans. It was a problem with no solution as near as she could tell, not if one tried to approach it NOW, and she tried to tamp down on her thoughts as she wondered, wondered, wondered where it had gone wrong.

After rinsing her bowl and storing a single grain of rice and a bean away under stasis to be magically multiplied for lunch, she picked her way through the ruins of the castle and considered the problem at hand. The brash Gryffindor in her demanded she discover a way to find and kill Voldemort herself but really, what would that achieve at this point? IF by some miracle she managed to locate him and IF on top of that she, as a solitary witch, were able to circumvent his security she would, she admitted, be faced with an entirely barely immortal Lord Voldemort. Hypothetically, Nagini would be with him and mortality could be easily achieved. That assumed, of course, that he had not attempted to split his soul into more horcruxes, and one could only hope for his sake he had not. But a mortal, mostly soulless Voldemort was a crazed, unbelievably powerful Voldemort and for all her skills and knowledge, she really did not like her chances against him.

Assuming that she was somehow successful, then what exactly? How on earth was that helpful to her? This wasn't some sort of wild pack where she could kill the alpha and be named in his place, this was a world where Death Eaters would thank her very much for removing the only person alive who could leash them at all and then proceed to rape and torture her to death. For her troubles, she would succeed in putting down a rabid animal and affect absolutely nothing.

Hermione ran her hands over the spines of all the books left standing on their shelves as she entered the library, reveling in knowledge at her fingertips. All the cleverness and mastery of all these subjects, magical or otherwise, wasn't going to change her current lot in life though. Her blood placed her in the position of being less valuable than the family pet and in addition, she was presumed dead. She had no power here.

She paused with her foot slightly lifted off the floor, a wicked idea occurring to her that would have made all the people she had ever respected and idolized shudder and recriminate her and scream at the absolute lunacy of such a thought.

If she could figure out when, exactly, one would go to FIX the shitty state of affairs she currently found herself in...

Hermione cocked an eyebrow as she sat down heavily on the floor, brilliant mind whirling as she considered the undoubtedly dire consequences of such a choice. What did she know about time travel? She had read an article, she remembered as she rose to her feet and made her way over to the magazine's section, published by Professor Saul Croker? Cracker? No, that wasn't it.

Croaker, she thought in triumph as she found the magazine in question. He was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, and he had published a piece discouraging any research into replacing the destroyed time turners from her fifth year. She flipped through the magazine until she found the page she was looking for, reading the offered perspective speculatively.

"As our investigations currently stand, the longest period that may be relived without the possibility of serious harm to the traveller or to time itself is around five hours. We have been able to encase single Hour-Reversal Charms, which are unstable and benefit from containment, in small, enchanted hour-glasses that may be worn around a witch or wizard's neck and revolved according to the number of hours the user wishes to relive...

All attempts to travel back further than a few hours have resulted in catastrophic harm to the witch or wizard involved. It was not realized for many years why time travellers over great distances never survived their journeys. All such experiments have been abandoned since 1899, when Eloise Mintumble became trapped, for a period of five days, in the year 1402. Now we understand that her body had aged five centuries in its return to the present and, irreparably damaged, she died in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries shortly after we managed to retrieve her. What is more, her five days in the distant past caused great disturbance to the life paths of all those she met, changing the course of their lives so dramatically that no fewer than twenty-five of their descendants vanished in the present, having been 'un-born'.

Finally, there were alarming signs, during the days following Madam Mintumble's recovery, that time itself had been disturbed by such a serious breach of its laws. Tuesday following her reappearance lasted two and a half full days, whereas Thursday shot by in the space of four hours. The Ministry of Magic had a great deal of trouble in covering this up and since that time, the most stringent laws and penalties have been placed around those studying time travel."

Hermione nibbled lightly on her lower lip as she considered the ramifications of going back in time to change things. Ripping time and space asunder had serious consequences, but to whom exactly?

She immediately dismissed any concerns regarding her own potential death, should she undertake such an endeavor. After all, her life was not worth anything at this point anyway and any changes she made would be in the hopes they may impact her future self, not her current self. The issue for the time traveler appeared to occur when they returned to the future in any case and that was not going to be a consideration, as she had no intention of coming back.

As far as any qualms she may have had erasing descendants, the argument that anyone who wasn't a high-level death eater did not want to be alive right now anyway effectively addressed those. Who in their right mind would want their bloodline to be living right this moment unless they were a member of an extremely elite few? Most of the lower level death eaters and their families weren't fairing any better than the average magical British Citizen and their lot was perhaps even worse because for them, there was no sympathy. People were living in poverty as the galleon lost all value, the country was war-torn and ravaged, and there was absolutely no oversight exempting random shows of brute force and cruelty by a sporadically attending police force that worked at the whim of an unstable dictator. No one wanted to be here.

Alright, so assuming she was willing to defy the laws of time and travel back...

She was left with two major considerations. HOW would she do it and WHEN would she go.

The first question was alarmingly easy to answer, although it would still require quite a bit of work to accomplish what she would need to in order to effectively master time travel. One of Dumbledore's many oddities, which she had cataloged all of sometime in her 8th month of time spent hiding out at Hogwarts, was a shattered and non-functioning time turner. It would be a simple matter of reverse engineering the magical object and finding the right intent to create the object again in the way she needed, lacking the ministry-imposed limitations. Perhaps the idea of recreating a magical object that had been lost to wizarding culture SHOULD have been intimidating, but obviously, someone along the way had managed it, and if they could she had no doubt that she could as well.

One of the only things Hermione had available as far as things to do with herself during her long months of solitude was study and learn her magic. At its core, magic was entirely about will and intent. Correspondences, such as magical objects as focuses or even the specific wand movements used to mold that intent were simply helpers, like training wheels. Given enough time, she figured, a person could render all of that entirely unnecessary. Magic was part of you, woven into you, and everything else was simply gravy (with the exemption of runes and potions.) Knowing that, she was confident she could construct whatever correspondences were necessary to recreate the magic of the time turner.

That being understood, there was still the incredibly delicate matter of exactly when would be best to return to. That was a conundrum that would not be so easily addressed.

* * *

It took her a little over two years of near-constant discipline to create a functioning time turner. As before, only the company of the Hogwarts ghosts kept her from going completely insane in her solitude. She tested it at midnight as September 18th turned to September 19th and in turn bought herself an extra hour of being 21 years old. As the morning of her 22nd birthday dawned, Hermione turned her attention to deciding when, exactly, she would use her time turner to return to.

Once again, she sat in the potions classroom, chewing her rice and beans precisely, and allowed her mind to wander. The easiest answer was to simply return to a time when Tom Riddle was unable to defend himself and murder him. Immediately, the thought of murdering someone made Hermione's stomach acid curdle. She was pragmatic, at times perhaps even coldly calculating, and she had cruelty within her. Marietta Edgecomb, Dolores Umbridge, and Rita Skeeter, among others, could attest to the viciousness she had always carried inside her. But for all of her sins, and in the darkest recesses of her mind she had to admit she had quite a few, she had never maliciously or purposefully killed anyone.

Stomping outside onto the grounds so she could move towards the lake for a morning walk, Hermione argued with herself. Try as she might, she simply could not convince herself to travel back in time and murder a young Tom Riddle. That meant she had to work outside the confines of his death, as no one else had accomplished anything near his demise until her time.

She snorted as she considered going back to find Dumbledore and share what she knew with him. The light and all their ilk would be completely unwilling to listen to anything she said, terrified and shortsighted when faced with the possible consequences of what she would have done to get back to them. The proof that the sort of rigid morality and confines of what was acceptable magic that Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix had insisted on working within were doomed to failure was all around her.

With a tired sigh, Hermione settled herself against a tree and looked out at the Black Lake. The thought had occurred to her over the years that she would have to work with the monster instead of against him if she wished to accomplish anything, but she had brutally throttled down that kind of thinking as she feared that truly considering what that would mean would have killed any progress she made on her project entirely in a sort of misguided attempt to protect herself. Now though, as she considered her options (or lack thereof,) she wasn't sure what else there was for her to do. Tom Riddle would kill her as sure as she was a witch, but again, that was hardly a concern. Most importantly was finding a way to buy herself enough time to influence things before he disposed of her, so that her future self and her future loved ones had a chance in hell at a life.

Every group or individual that had ever offered Tom Riddle any real opposition failed. Spectacularly. While she could provide information that could almost assure their victory, none of the groups she knew of would accept it once they understood where the information came from. In truth, Dumbledore was liable to obliviate her and lock her in the mental wards at St. Mungo's, 'for the greater good.' That left her only the man himself to work with, and that in and of itself had implicit complications.

The problem then could only round all the way back to her original obsession, the nagging and incessant thoughts that had started this journey in the first place somewhere in the very first year she had been at Hogwarts during her necessary exile from the wizarding world.

When, exactly, did everything go off course for Tom Riddle?

What were his original goals, and when did they become so distorted by madness that it was now impossible to see them?

And how could she influence those goals by providing him with enough information about his future to avoid this horror show and not create a whole other one?

This was not a problem she was going to solve quickly, Hermione thought with a sigh. She took out a sheath of parchment and began to set her mind to the details.

* * *

It was another three years of planning and training before she made the decision that it was time to put her plan in action. Hermione Granger had honed her skills, created contingencies within her mind and her body, and had refined her tools to absolute perfection. She had even spent time in the still somewhat devastated Hogsmeade under the effects of the Polyjuice Potion after obtaining hairs from the place using the invisibility cloak so that she was no longer enormously socially awkward or still paralyzed by crowds. She had tried with everything she had to undo the effects of almost 7 years of solitude and hard training that had caused her ability to be around people to deteriorate and there was simply nothing else for it until she could be in public again without fear of death or discovery.

There was only one thing left to do, and she could not, would not, yet HAD to do it.

With a shaking hand, Hermione shifted slightly at the headmaster's desk and lifted the magically cursed blade she had foraged from Dumbledore's magical objects. She glanced down at the scar on her arm. Every test she had run on this blade showed her that the properties were similar to that of the blade used by Bellatrix Lestrange. It should heal badly, and the scar would never disappear, but it shouldn't poison her or cause any additional curses to manifest. She wasn't sure exactly how much of the blood purity prejudice was actually ingrained in Tom Riddle and how much was simply a tool to get what he wanted, but one thing was perfectly clear to her. She could not go back in time to meet a younger Tom Riddle with 'Mudblood' emblazoned on her arm.

She pressed the knife to her skin and began to carve.

The 'l' became the Witch's Rune called 'the crossroads,' and 'b' was sculpted into the Deathly Hallows symbol. The 'd's were changed to a modified lunar glyph for air and another for fire. The double 'o's became the Witch's Rune 'the rings' while the 'u' became 'the eye.' The 'M' she elongated, carving the carefully crafted sigil she had constructed for her fabricated Danish magical family, Mortensen.

Sweating and bleeding heavily, Hermione dropped the knife and cast a wandless cauterizing spell from a Medical Magics textbook. The wound knit together and where once had sat a crudely carved slur, her arm now showed runes of power. Of course, she mused as she downed a blood replenishing potion, any witch who would carve runes into her arms stood to be a little insane. But so too was a witch willing to rip asunder time itself, so a little eccentricity couldn't possibly come as a surprise to a younger version of the Dark Lord.

Hermione carefully picked her way back to the room of requirement, where she had been sleeping for all the years she had been hiding at Hogwarts. As she settled on her bed on the eve of September 18th, she was distinctly unnerved by the actions she would take upon waking in the morning. Her long-dead best friend who was raised to the slaughter, as Snape had put it, to save the wizarding world had discovered the magical world on his 11th birthday. She would try, as a very last resort, to save that world on her 25th.

She needed to fix what was broken. She needed the world to be orderly, people to do as they should, and for things to make sense. Otherwise, what was there left for her?


	2. Meet and Greet

It was a typically rainy day as Tom Riddle picked his way through the streets of Diagon Alley. An owl from Eeylops screeched at him as he passed and was silenced almost immediately when Tom shot the creature a tempering look. His pocket was loaded down with a quill, courtesy of Livius Nott's second cousin, that could render the unfortunate user deaf and blind if anything the quill deemed pro-muggle was written. It was a curiosity, but a tiring one, and not exactly the sort of captivating find he was sometimes favored to discover in his work as an Acquirer of all things dark and enthralling for Borgin and Burke's.

As he strode deftly into Knockturn Alley, he noted a young lady following somewhat on his heels as he headed towards the storefront. He suspected she was paying little attention to where she was going, her nose buried deep in an old and ratty looking tome, and his musings were confirmed when he paused outside the store only to have her ram painfully book first into his shoulder blades. The girl lost her balance, brown, chocolate eyes widening comically as she fell backwards. She would have landed squarely on her back, but Tom's natural charm overrode his annoyance at her inattention and he caught her with a steadying grip at her elbow.

The girl straightened herself and to his rising irritation, she ignored him in favor of grimacing and retrieving her book from the road.

"Pardon me, Madam," he intoned politely, biting back his annoyance at being accosted in the street. Were he still school-aged, he likely would have sent her a nasty hex right there for her rudeness. At 29, Tom was more discerning about his punishments. "Are you alright?"

The girl glanced at him briefly before she moved to slip past into the store. "It's Miss, and I'm quite well."

She paused just inside the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Thank you, Tom," she murmured before striding into the depths of the store.

Tom felt his eyes narrow slightly in aggravated surprise before he followed the girl in, tracing her footsteps until he found her perusing the cursed books. "I'm sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met, Miss...?"

He let the question of her name dangle in polite inquiry, his face a smooth mask of courtesy despite his irritation.

"We have not, Mr. Riddle," she answered smoothly, deftly dodging the question of her own name as she turned into the next aisle.

Allowing himself a moment of gritting his teeth ever so slightly, Tom followed her and pressed her again. "I repeat, Miss, that you have me at a disadvantage. If I may be so frank as to ask, what is your name and how exactly do you come to know mine?"

She glanced at him distractedly, letting her fingers drag inches from the spines of the books in a caressing fashion, as she murmured, "Hermione Mortensen, if you must know."

She spun in a circle, the skirt of her dress billowing slightly as she glanced at the tomes behind her before she stepped slightly towards him and lowered her voice.

"Perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for information on the instability of Horcruxes. Any idea where I might find anything on that, my Lord?"

Without a second thought, Tom had her whirled into his arms with his forearm securing her at her delicate neck, the curve of her back pressed to his chest as he apparated them both to his flat above the shop. She did not fight him as he pushed her to the wall and secured her there with a Sticking Charm, keeping his wand trained on her as he took a much closer look at her than he had bothered with earlier.

Hermione Mortenson's wrists were wrenched above her head, the elbows bent slightly at her ears so that she could rest mostly comfortably on the balls of her feet. Had she attempted to pull her wand, the chit would have found herself much more painfully restrained but as it was, he was merciful and so he allowed her this small concession until he could ascertain what exactly her purpose was in securing his attention so thoroughly.

Her peaches and cream complexion was complemented by a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a delicate nose, her high cheekbones currently tinted lightly with color. Her mouth was plump, but not overly full and she licked her lips nervously under his scrutiny. Judging by her features, Tom estimated her to be in her early twenties. She wore a dress that tailored in at the waist, the soft peach fabric glancing over delicate curves as it fell to mid-calf. Her stockings were seamed and while one of her shoes had fallen off in the scuffle, he could see that she wore sensible low heels. The cape she wore was a flirty wink to traditional wizarding robes as it glanced over the princess neckline, the lacy sleeves of her dress stopping at her wrists. A few chestnut curls fell alluringly along her jawline but the rest was pulled into a braided crown that circled her head. While her appearance was that of the quintessential pureblood witch, her manners dismissed that idea entirely.

All of these physical characteristics combined in mere seconds in Tom's brain to coalesce in the absolute certainty that he had never seen this witch before in his life. How then, one had to wonder, had she come to know not only his name but arguably the biggest secret he had? Not even his inner circle was aware of his Horcruxes, and this girl either had knowledge of them personally or at least was aware of his interest in the subject.

"Well, Ms. Mortenson," Tom began smoothly, not a hint of agitation in his voice. "You have successfully gained the somewhat dubious honor of my notice. I wonder if you might now enlighten me to how you know of me and what, precisely, you expect to do with your alleged information?"

"How I know of you, Tom Marvelo Riddle, should be of much less interest to you than what I know of you," Hermione answered with a wry smirk.

He noted her knowledge of his middle name and tucked that away for later analysis as he moved towards her quietly, stopping to study Hermione's expression as she stared back at him.

"I worry that you misunderstand your situation, Miss Mortenson," Tom told her coolly. "As I see it, you are currently in my home, kept in by the same wards that keep all others out. I assure you that my protections are nigh impregnable. To further the desperation of your situation, I have you secured and entirely at my mercy. You may be laboring under the false assumption that I am above coercion to achieve my ends, but that would be a fallacy. Crucio."

His voice was a quiet touch as Tom waited for the telltale screams of pain or at the least the clenching of her jaw indicating that she was fighting the excruciating agony of his curse, but aside from the occasional involuntary twitch of her muscles, Hermione's face stayed impassive.

His eyes narrowed in the face of her unperturbed countenance and he grasped her chin, pulling her eyes to his as he bit out a forceful 'Legilimens'.

What Tom encountered was like nothing he had ever seen before in the mind of another. Her mind was not accessible, nor was it shielded. Instead of the usual walls and buffets one would meet in the head of an accomplished Occlumens, he felt himself sucked into an impenetrable fog. Everything around him was white and static and the act of forcing his way through any shielding became increasingly frustrating because there was nothing he could see to attack.

With a growl of rage, Tom wrenched himself from her mind in the most painful way he could manage and his anger only grew when she failed to even flinch.

"What is this?!" He spat at her, mind whirling at the consequences of his two favorite spells being rendered inert.

Hermione smiled gently, no mocking in her gaze despite how she had just obviously won a battle. "I am your absolute foil or your absolute tool. How you use what I offer will determine which I am to you."

He scoffed at her, running a hand through his dark hair before he forcefully reigned his control back in. His face returned to a cool mask as he tempered his rage. "I am growing increasingly tired of your equivocating. There are a million other ways to cause pain than a crucio, witch."

"And none of them will do a thing," she retorted with as much of a shrug as she could manage. "Induced congenital analgesia."

Tom tilted his head slightly as he regarded her. "If I recall correctly, congenital analgesia is a muggle disease."

Hermione nodded. "Correct. It renders the sufferer, as it were, unable to feel painful stimuli. All pain is processed through a part of our brain that identifies the agony as such, including the physically anguishing effects of curses and poisons. I quite literally rewired that part of my brain to fail to recognize painful stimuli, and only that stimuli."

"That's a handy little bit of magic," he commented slowly, his brain quickly firing and connecting the implications of such a thing. "And the fog? Is that the same?"

She granted him a small smile. "I have had 5 years to prepare for you, Tom, and nothing else to do but that. If I gave you walls, you'd just knock them down. At least the mist will force you to think about it."

"But for what, Miss Mortenson, are you preparing?" He hissed at her, his control slipping slightly as he pressed his wand to her neck in frustration. "You have shown me all the ways in which you find yourself superior, but you have told me nothing. I do not respond well to taunts."

"I am your foil, or I am your tool," Hermione repeated. "The year is 1955, but I was born in 1979. Think about what that means for you."

"Show me," Tom demanded, as he willingly dove back into the mists that made up her mind, daring her to prove to him that she was, in fact, a time traveler. This time the white cleared and he saw a teenaged Hermione bent over a Daily Prophet with a ginger-haired boy, reading an article. It detailed the arrest and subsequent conviction of a wizard named Sturgis Podmore who was charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic. While that was uninteresting, what was fascinating was the date on the newspaper: 7 September 1995. Tom studied the memory thoroughly for signs of tampering but found none.

'Another,' he breathed into the space of her mind and she showed him 2 more headlines with dates from the 1990s before he found himself immersed once more in white fog.

This time, Tom gently released his hold on her and stumbled back into the current space, his dark eyes flashing as he kept the girl caged with his body.

His gaze flickered to her left arm and she smiled, quirking an eyebrow in silent invitation for him to look for himself, see if this girl came back to him as a follower. The dark mark was still in its earliest stages, only a handful of his people even had one, but he intended for them to be much more common as time went by. Tom's fingers slid across her skin as he gently pulled up her sleeve, feeling irregular bumps and scaring as he watched in fascination as instead of a dark mark, he steadily revealed rune carvings.

His eyes flicked back to hers as he rest his hand lightly over the markings, watching carefully for her reaction to his touch.

"I will give you this, witch. You are unbearably intriguing," he murmured.

Tom took a step back and considered her briefly before casting a silent 'Finite' and releasing her from the wall. If Hermione took offense to his heavy-handed tactics she didn't show it, simply shook her arms out presumably to allow the blood to flow back in from her previous position as she regarded him silently.

"I think, Miss Mortenson, it would be wise if we sat down and you told me exactly what you have come back in time for."

Tom gestured towards the sofa in his sitting room, a furnishing that came with the flat and settled himself on the opposite side of the girl as she settled in, crossing her legs. This witch had gone from unbelievable annoyance to priceless possession in a matter of seconds. She could tell him exactly how he had achieved his goals, because he had no doubt that he would, and any difficulties he may encounter moving forward could be smoothed before he hit them. The girl had broken her own brain in order to undermine his use of his favorite unforgivable; that was both incredibly brash and... Intelligent? Insane? He couldn't actually decide which. Tom doubted very seriously based on that alone that she would bother to send herself to him without all the pertinent information.

Of course, there was the very real possibility that she had sent herself or been sent to undermine all his efforts instead, to stall all his success and attempt to ensure his failure. While that would be mildly annoying, her work as an aide instead of a hindrance could be assured in other ways. Removing the use of physical torture and occlumency would force him to be creative, but these were not insurmountable obstacles.

Hermione tugged her sleeve back down before she answered him, and he filed her obvious discomfort away to dissect later. "I've come to you with an offer."

She took a deep breath and seemed to be casting about for how to say what she wanted to. "Things in the future are... well, they're bad. Really bad. And although I have no illusions that my preferred version of the future and yours do not match, I am almost 100% sure that things did not turn out how you intended."

"Show me," he demanded once again, grabbing her chin, intent on diving back into her head.

"Wait!" She cried, attempting to batt his hand away. "You can't just go poking around in my head all the time, Tom. I allowed it as a small extension of trust earlier, but there are rules!"

Tom's eyes narrowed and he forced her eyes up to meet his, keeping his grip on her face firm. "I think you will find very quickly, Ms. Mortenson, that I do not like rules."

"Yes, well, there are many things I don't like, Tom," she answered with a huff. "And yet I find that when someone has something I want, I may have to do them all the same."

He released her face and sat back on the couch, twirling his wand lazily in his hand. "I could easily kill you."

There was no use beating around the bush about who he was and what he was capable of. She obviously knew too much of him to be surprised by his willingness to murder.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But then how ever would you get the information you want?"

"While I accede your point, there are many ways to torture a person that do not require pain," he pointed out.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him and clasped her hands in her lap. "I quite literally severed synapses in my own brain to remove a tool from your arsenal. I created a whole new way of occluding just to undermine your own skills. You don't know this yet, but I personally reconstructed and repowered a completely non-working time turner to get back to you. Do you honestly think, if I can do all that, that my will or my mind will break first? Because my broken mind is worth nothing to you, and I promise you that it will go before I bend."

Tom considered this, rage at her impertinence crashing against fascination at how effectively she had backed him into a corner. She said that she had spent 5 years preparing for him and if he thought about it, Tom figured that was probably about how long it would take to try to ferret out every loophole and weakness one could when they were faced with trying to come to some sort of accord with him. For once in his life, he was the person at the table less prepared to negotiate and that simply was not something he could allow to happen.

Tom stood up swiftly, causing Hermione to startle slightly as she looked up at him with wary eyes. "I hope you will permit me an evening to consider what sort of terms I would like to set for any proposed arrangement. You once again have me at a disadvantage, as you have had years to sort out what you wish to gain from our... acquaintanceship and I have not had the benefit of even a few hours."

Hermione stuttered slightly, but she stood as well, smoothing her skirts and nodding. "Yes, that does seem fair, I suppose. I think it's only right to give you a moment."

Tom almost laughed at her sudden change in demeanor. Audacious with no finesse, sense of fair play, no ability to think on her feet; Gryffindor, one would think.

"Would you like to join me for tea tomorrow, Miss Mortenson?" Tom asked, placing a hand lightly on her back as he led her to the door. "I think it would be wise to keep our conversation private, as it were, and perhaps after a bit to think things through we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Absolutely," she told him with a firm shake of her head. "Shall we meet at the store, say, around two?"

"Perfect," he confirmed with a smirk, turning her at the door to brush her knuckles with his lips. As he kissed her hand, he cast a silent 'Inveniet' onto her skin, distracting her from the tingling of the tracking spell by slamming the door open and into the wall with his other hand simultaneously. There was no way in hell he was going to risk this girl slipping through his fingers while he took a night to plan his strategy to acquire her.

Hermione jumped at the sound and Tom murmured an apology.

"Until tomorrow," he bid her as he opened his wards to let her pass.

"Tomorrow," Hermione affirmed with a small smile before turning and disappearing down the stairs and off into the streets of Knockturn Alley.


	3. Negotiations

Tom rolled his neck around, feeling the muscles straining slightly as they stretched. He sat at his small breakfast nook, studying the notes in front of him and sipping at a black coffee. With a swipe of his quill, Tom nodded to himself and sat back in his chair, satisfied with the demands he had spent most of the night and all of the morning fine-tuning. It was a question of efficiency: what were the things he really, truly wanted from this girl and how much else could he manage to get at the same time?

Hermione Mortenson was just the sort of tool he knew was without a doubt necessary to make his own. She had given him enough of a taste of what she had to offer for him to know she would be the crown jewel amongst his collection of assets. The girl was brilliant, had made herself indispensable by having ownership of knowledge no one else could boast, and she was ambitious enough to break down the laws of time to bring all this information to lay at his feet.

The problem lay in extracting information from the chit, and this is where he found himself infuriatingly and intriguingly stymied. A rather large part of him seriously wanted to destroy her simply for the fact that she had thwarted him. It was an interesting sensation, to have the thing that you despised about a person and the thing that you genuinely liked about them be the same. Not that he had a lot of experience with that. He rarely liked much of anything about anyone.

Still, he mused as he took another long sip from his mug, there was potential.

Noting the time at 1:15 pm, Tom stood from his seat and dumped the remainder of his coffee in the sink. He stripped off his clothes as he entered his bedchamber, undoing his button-down with a silent, wandless charm and divesting himself of his trousers before slipping into a steaming shower.

As he washed his hair, he found himself smiling as he wondered if she had anticipated what he would demand of her as a way to assure her devotion in light of her decimation of his usual tactics. She had eliminated physical torture as a way to break her spirit and helpfully pointed out how mental torture would likely backfire on him spectacularly. That fucking fog made it impossible to rip her mind open and pull out all the relevant bits. She had even removed blackmail of loved ones, as she literally had none in this time period. He had considered threatening the ancestors of those she would come to care for, but he would have needed to figure out who that would be first and that would be a ridiculous amount of subterfuge for uncertain payoff. The girl was nothing if not pragmatic. It was possible she would let people die to accomplish her goals.

Tom stepped out of the shower and dried his body before pulling on a crisp, oxford button-down and a black pair of slacks. He placed a pair of suspenders over his shoulders and topped it off with a simple set of black wizarding robes before he headed towards the door of his flat. He felt his wards smooth over his skin like a caress, the rather nasty dark magic built into them at once soothing and arousing. Though he was 10 minutes early, he found Hermione already in the store, bent over the counter as she argued with Borgin about the instability of dark curse magic on pewter based jewelry.

He paused at the door to eye the lithe, stocking-clad legs of the witch in question with interest. She really was a pretty little thing, which would make what he needed to secure from her infinitely more pleasant. Her chestnut curls were down in ringlets today, the tips of her hair just tickling down to the top of a rather pert arse and Tom allowed himself a moment to imagine exactly what all that silky hair would feel like clenched in his fist.

He may have intended to become a god, but even Zeus was known for fucking as many innocent little maidens as he could convince to have him. Tom wasn't quite that obsessed with sex, but it was certainly an enjoyable past time and the little witch in front of him was more than enough to spark more than a few wizard's fantasies. Although, it was questionable whether HIS attraction was more to her physical attributes or the way she had ruthlessly arranged circumstances to be favorable to her through brilliant and cutting means.

Tom cleared his throat, watching as she turned to him with an apprehensive smile. He granted her a small but charming grin in return, the sort that was known to make easily manipulated witches flush and fan themselves, but she simply raised an eyebrow at him as her smile widened slightly.

"Mr. Riddle," she greeted him with a flirt at a curtsy before picking up her bag off the counter and walking towards him.

Bringing her knuckles to his lips as soon as she reached him, he answered smoothly. "Ms. Mortenson. Won't you follow me for our appointment?"

"Of course," she murmured, allowing him to lead her by the hand outside and back up to his flat.

This time when Tom opened the wards to Hermione, he allowed them to simply drape over her skin and he delighted in her shudder as the dark magic brushed against her.

She turned to him once she was inside and swallowed heavily. "Was that really necessary?"

"Oh Miss Mortenson, I really do believe you should accustom yourself to the touch of dark magic," he replied evenly, motioning for her to precede him into the kitchen. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, but she walked in anyway and at his indication, settled herself at the same breakfast nook where he had spent the night plotting.

She eyed the parchment in front of her, but Tom simply collected it and set it aside. He had already enchanted it so that none but he could read it, so the only thing she saw were invoices for orders from Borgin and Burkes.

"Tea?" Tom offered, positioning the kettle as he took down two teacups and placed them on the table.

Hermione blinked at him and then let out a little laugh. "We're actually having tea? I suppose I thought... well, never mind what I thought. Tea would be lovely."

Tom smiled charmingly at her as he poured her cup. "I find that a little courtesy at the beginning of a meeting can actually go quite a long way towards both parties leaving satisfied. Of course, if you'd prefer, we can dispense with the pleasantries and begin talking about all of the many ways you can be of use to me. Milk or sugar?"

Hermione grinned a little and picked up her cup. "No, thank you. I suppose manners are important, even to the future Dark Lord."

"Future Dark Lord?" Tom replied, biting back his irritation at her insinuation. "I assure you, I am very much here in the present."

The girl had the nerve to roll her eyes at him and he found himself regretting, once again, that she was immune to Crucios. It had taken her less than ten minutes to make him wish to put her solidly in her place. Of course, there were other ways to put a person in their place. He intended to use this meeting to exploit them.

Hermione pulled her own notes out of her bag, setting them around her on the counter, and Tom noted that they were NOT charmed so that only she could see them. The girl was far too trusting, that much was painfully obvious. Her short-term tactics left much to be desired, an inadequacy he would have to address in due time.

"Shall we get right down to it, then?" She inquired, looking up at him expectantly.

Tom took a sip of his tea. "Please. Ladies first."

Hermione flashed him a smile and brushed a stray curl from her face. "Thank you. Well, as we've discussed, I think the best idea for us moving forward is some sort of business arrangement. I had originally not thought much past passing on viable information, but now that I'm here, I find myself rather inclined to stay alive, much to my surprise, and-"

Tom interrupted her with an amused sort of tone. "Wait a moment. Did you assume I'd kill you?"

She looked at him with surprise. "Of course. You're Lord Voldemort. I assume you plan to murder me as soon as you wrangle all pertinent information from me. I've decided I'm going to avoid that."

He chuckled. "So you intended to come back in time, convince me to listen to what you wanted me to know, and then die? Awfully morbid of you."

Hermione shrugged. "There were certain things I needed to change about the future and you are known to be murderous. It seems like the logical conclusion unless I actively try to prevent it."

"How painfully Gryffindor of you; so brave. Never mind, please continue."

She frowned at him but resumed speaking. "So assuming I'd like to stay alive, which I would, I'm going to need some assurances from you regarding my safety."

"Let's start with what it is you're asking for," Tom told her. "In detail."

"Right," she agreed with a nod. "In exchange for information, I want your assurances of some sort of security. It pains me to admit this, things are not quite so backwards in my time, but being a single witch with no family has put me in a terrible position in this time period."

Tom nodded. "No family means no money, no references. You won't be able to secure employment or buy land or anything to make a life for yourself."

Hermione's eyes flashed with fury and Tom bit back a smirk. "Yes, I know. Which is why I find myself in the rather appalling position of needing aide with that. I never planned to build a life here and now I find myself quite... adrift."

"Go on," Tom urged her, maintaining a placid expression. Within, however, victory swelled. She was practically making his points for him.

"That being said, I want a position. If I'm going to be here helping you, I might as well make it worth my time. I want to stay on as an advisor of sorts, to help influence the way you shape this world to your whims without worrying my role will become obsolete. If you can let your little death eater cronies have influence in the new world order, I want some too."

She glanced down at her notes and continued. "I bring more to the table than most of your... colleagues, and I want to ensure that you listen to me. I know that ultimately you are going to make your own choices but I want your assurance that if I ask, you will listen to my counsel BEFORE you make major decisions. It is quite likely I will have something pertinent to offer. I have studied wizarding culture and history thoroughly enough to know quite a bit about the political climate in the next few decades."

"Finally," Hermione continued, fixing him with a firm look, "I want protection. I'm not stupid, Tom. I know exactly who you are and what you are capable of, and I am painfully familiar with what your lackeys are capable of as well. I will not put my blood, sweat, and tears into your plans just to be consistently screwed with by people far less capable in aiding you."

Briefly, Tom wondered how she found herself familiar with his 'lackeys,' but he'd find out soon enough.

"Is that all?" He asked coldly.

Hermione cleared her throat as her cheeks pinked slightly. "Yes."

"And for all that I would get unrestricted access to your mind?"

"No!" Hermione nearly squeaked. "Absolutely not! I would tell you everything I know about your Horcruxes (and why your plan is deeply flawed, by the way,) ways to dodge becoming an incorporeal spirit for 10 years-"

"What?!" Tom sputtered around his tea.

"-information on all current and future death eaters, including betrayals, and how to avoid becoming completely and utterly mad because, Tom, in the future, you are absolutely insane."

He sat there, seething with fury and staring at her person before he ground his teeth together and lunged across the table. Tom hauled her up by her robes and glared at her pretty face, snarling in outrage.

"Show me. Show me this future you so casually reference; show me _now._ "

 _He dove into her mind, watching the fog swirling around, and just as he was considering that she may deny him, the fog cleared and he found himself in the remnants of a war zone._

 _Everything was distorted and fuzzy, as memories colored by adrenaline often were, but a figure walked between two clearly opposing groups in the Hogwarts courtyard. In the group closest to the figure, Tom could see the masks and marks associated with his Death Eaters. He glanced back at the man in front of them with mounting dread._

 _"That's Lord Voldemort," came a small voice from his elbow. He recognized it as Hermione's, but Tom was too horrifically enthralled by the scene before him to respond as the figure began to speak._

 _"Stupid girl! Harry Potter is dead. From this day forth, you put your faith... in me."_

 _The figure (Tom himself, though that was still bitingly difficult to believe) turned back to his followers with a manic glee in his eyes. "Harry Potter is dead!"_

 _His followers laughed aloud and he joined them with a crazed laugh of his own._

 _"And now is the time to declare yourself," he continued, turning back to the other side of the courtyard._

The memory faded and Tom wrenched himself from her head, sitting down heavily in the chair. To be fair, that man had looked more than a few knuts short of a galleon. Hermione eyed him warily before she settled herself back down as well and took a drink of her tea.

"That's me?" Tom verified blankly.

"That's you," she told him with a small nod.

"So I win," he started carefully.

"Oh yes," she agreed. "You win."

"Why do I look like that?" He asked her.

"You are defeated and you die," Hermione paused and scrunched her nose up, "or you should have, I suppose. But you don't actually die, because of your Horcruxes."

"You said the Horcruxes were a shitty idea," Tom reminded her.

"I did say that. I meant the seven you end up having. It's hard to track, I'm not sure if the madness started during the Horcrux making or when you died."

"I did not die!" He snarled, twitching at the thought.

"Not exactly," she admitted. "That's where the years as an incorporeal spirit comes in. It's my understanding you primarily possessed snakes."

"Snakes," he echoed, trying to wrap his mind around this information.

"Yes, snakes," Hermione confirmed. "But eventually one of your followers does some sort of ritual in a graveyard with a cauldron and you get a body back and it... well, you saw it. Obviously, there are some deficiencies."

"No nose," Tom commented absently.

"Among other things."

"And I was insane?"

"When I left the future," she told him, "The world was burned to dust. Your Death Eaters were running on a very long leash, and I'm sure you know how stable some of them are. Last I heard, you were hiding out in squalor, terrified someone was going to kill you and your pet snake."

Tom ran a hand through his wavy hair and swallowed heavily. "Well, fuck."

They drank their tea in silence for a few minutes as Tom wrapped his mind around the information she thrust at him. He processed what she had told him and finally found a thought that he wrapped around himself like a warm cloak. None of that was going to happen anymore. He looked across the table at his little prize and took a deep, cleansing breath. All of that would be prevented completely because he had a time traveler in his pocket. Crown Jewel, indeed. Now to acquire her.

"Counteroffer," Tom said smoothly, breaking the silence and causing Hermione to jump. All signs of upset were gone from his face as he eyed her pleasantly.

Hermione swallowed heavily but nodded anyway. "Right, yes. Let's hear it."

"I want all information on the future laid out for me to peruse whenever I see fit; complete access to your mind at any time I decide I need it. I want utter honesty, compelled by the strength of an oath, your utter devotion, and your complete loyalty. And, Gaza," he smirked, leaning across the table towards her, "I want it guaranteed. Magically."

"Are you insane?!" Hermione hissed at him.

"Not yet," he answered smoothly, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his tea. 'Not ever,' he corrected in his head with a grimace. "And watch how you speak to me. There are unpleasant side effects to hexes that need not be pain, you know."

"I came here to negotiate in good faith-"

"So negotiate," Tom interrupted.

"Fine. What, pray tell, will you give me in return for all of that?" She demanded incredulously.

"I will offer you my unwavering protection, to the best of my ability, and please keep in mind that my ability far surpasses any other wizard who might make a similar offer. I'll agree to not dismiss you out of hand when you offer advice but I'll not commit to always hearing you prattle."

She snorted out a rude sound and Tom raised his eyebrow, but otherwise ignored her.

"I plan to offer you the very best position to influence the new world order, Ms. Mortenson; higher than the very highest of my inner circle. See, I want your unbreakable allegiance and you have taken all my usual tools to ensure it. I can't break your will, I can't threaten you in any meaningful way, so you must see what you've left me. You want to change the world I'm making, Ms. Mortenson. What are you willing to give for that privilege? That's the real question."

Tom took another sip of his tea as he watched her mind work furiously across the table from him. Her eyebrows knit in confusion, then rose up her forehead as her face paled. He smiled before he could stop himself. There it is.

"You want me to be your wife," Hermione whispered as if by saying it quietly she could soften the blow to her psyche.

He frowned. "I find the word wife somewhat distasteful, but for all intents and purposes, yes. I'm more looking for a bondmate, or specifically, the bond that only comes with a marriage."

"I... you can't be serious."

"You know," Tom pointed out. "There are any number of pureblood witches I could floo right now who would absolutely salivate at this offer."

Hermione looked at him, dazed. "I... I'm sorry, Tom. I just really do not understand."

He looked at her blankly. "I sincerely hope it is the shock that is making you this slow, Miss Mortenson. Allow me to enlighten you."

Tom leaned forward and she met his eyes, her own running quickly though emotions as he explained. "I am unwilling to take an unbreakable vow because I do not wish for anyone other than you and I to be aware of your status as a time traveler and we would need a bonder. Obliviating your bonder after an unbreakable vow, as you know, can have serious consequences up to and including all parties involved losing their magic. Quite frankly, nothing would force me to risk my magic. The same is true with a magically binding contract. That leaves bonds, and of the two available, a blood bonding is even more invasive than a marriage bond."

He bit back a smirk as he watched her slump slightly in her chair, the fight draining out of her as he won her over with much-beloved logic. "You want protection and security in the wizarding world in 1955, with no family to speak of? Like it or not, that requires a husband. But that is only the beginning because I know your ambitions range much higher than that. An advisor would be easy to dismiss. But the bond will work as bonds always have since time itself began, making me more approachable to you than any other. Let go of some romanticized notion of marriage for a moment, Miss Mortenson, and truly consider it. This can't be underestimated and this is my real concession. Over time, you will be able to use our connection to shape my views somewhat. It will not make me love you, but you know it will make me more conciliatory and invested in your contentment."

"The reverse will be true as well," Hermione responded absentmindedly, conjuring a quill and a fresh sheet of parchment.

Tom watched her with amusement as she began scribbling out a revised negotiation. "True, but that's the nature of the beast. I get your utter loyalty, you get your influence. We all win."

She worked in silence for a time as Tom freshened his tea and waited for the inevitable relenting. His argument was simply too good. He had known the girl less than 24 hours and already her weaknesses were so very obvious to him. Logic and knowledge were what made her blood flow.

He allowed himself a small grin. Submission was always so delicious.

Finally, Hermione set down her quill and looked at him. Tom tilted his head and waited for her to agree with him in this obvious conclusion.

"Tell me, Tom," she asked with hard, guarded eyes. "How do you really feel about mudbloods?"


	4. Closing Arguements

Hermione was frantically pensive as Tom looked on coldly and took a drink of his tea. She fought to keep her face closed off and not show how panicked her thoughts were as she considered all of the many facets and potential complications of acceding to Tom Riddle's demands.

He wanted to marry her. Of course, on the surface, that was a horrifying idea. After all, this was the future Lord Voldemort and she knew exactly what the Snake was capable of. Putting aside the façade of the charming and ridiculously handsome man in front of her, his soul was already mangled beyond repair, twice, and she was still the woman who had originally fought to turn him to ash on any occasion she could possibly manage it. Additionally, he HAD physically assaulted her a little bit each of the two times she had spoken with him and while this was certainly not unexpected, it did not lend towards the solid foundation a marriage should be built on either.

And yet... he made some very valid points.

The bond WOULD make him more malleable, although it was hard to imagine the cold and calm wizard in front of her as anything of the sort. She would have the sort of influence that she could only dream of as an advisor and merlin knew she was actually smart enough to use it effectively. And to sweeten the deal, she would be indispensable to him. The kind of binding vows they would have to make in order to allow him to achieve what he hoped from the agreement would provide her with more protection and security than she could attain in any other position with or without him. She knew exactly what she would be to him, he'd told her himself. "Gaza," he'd called her. His treasure.

In an unfortunate turn of events, it would also likely make her fond of him. Hermione did not have the same protections his psychological make-up would afford him, and she was an emotional soul. She was already charmed, in spite of herself, and she was self-aware enough to admit it. Even with his temper, it was hard to reconcile the monster she remembered with the raven-haired, painfully attractive 'gentleman' in front of her. To add insult to injury, he was intelligent and conscientious, even if the courtesy was just for show. It was almost guaranteed that given time and proximity, any protections she had against him would diminish and she would find herself well and truly loyal to the man, even if he was loathsome and cruel. She knew enough about Stockholm Syndrome, as well as the way the mind of wives in organized crime syndicates worked, to know that eventually if she wasn't careful she would most likely become numb to atrocities he committed so long as she did not have to look at them personally.

It was going to be a constant fight for Hermione not to drown in him, if she gave in to this demand, because as strong as her personality was, Tom's was stronger.

Truth be told, if she was going to sacrifice her life to change the world he would make, was it such a problem to risk her heart as well? She was just one person, one woman, but she was ruthlessly hard-nosed. Even if the bond forced her to care for him, as he so clearly intended to ensure it would, it would also force him to give her what she wanted from this agreement as well.

It was unfair, really. Tom was demanding her heart and soul on a platter and she was going to have to serve them up to him so she could help protect her world. In return, he'd give her the opportunity to temper him, but not the guarantee that she could.

Well, fuck that, she decided. She was Hermione-Bloody-Granger and she was strong enough to steer him.

However, if she was going to hand the Dark Lord her lifetime as Hermione Mortenson, there was one thing she needed to assure she would get out of it. And whether she could manage to secure it or not was going to depend on his answer to one question.

"Tell me, Tom," she asked with hard, guarded eyes. "How do you really feel about mudbloods?"

A single eyebrow raised on Tom's flawless forehead was the only indication he gave her of his surprise.

"Are you muggleborn, Ms. Mortenson?" He asked her. "The name 'Mortenson' is what? Danish, I believe. My guess was half-blood, although obviously Mortenson wouldn't be your real name, would it?"

Hermione could feel a droplet of perspiration run down the small of her back. She had truly intended to keep her blood status a secret. But if she was going give what he was asking, one could be assured she was not going to accept a 'chance' of improving things for muggleborns. It was going to be a certainty.

"My blood status is hardly relevant, Tom," Hermione reminded him. "You won't find another time traveler of any blood so what I am is what you have. And you didn't answer my question."

She caught the flash of rage in his eyes before they froze over again and she forced herself to breathe evenly. He was so potentially dangerous and she had a dreadful and unavoidable habit of challenging him without even considering her choices. If he actually convinced her to marry him, she was fairly sure she was going to drive him to distraction without ever meaning to.

"Again, your sharp tongue works more quickly than your sharp mind, Miss Mortenson," he replied evenly. "But no matter for the moment. As a subset of humanity, muggles are dangerous and unpredictable. Their lack of magic makes them inferior and deficient in the most obvious of ways. That being said, as for muggleborns, I am of the opinion that allowing them to grow up until the age of 11 in the muggle world is irresponsible and perilous. It threatens our exposure, for one. For another, we deny them the opportunity to learn and grow amongst their own. Magical blood is magical blood. The moment they manifest magic, they cease to be muggles and that is all that truly matters."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her thoughtfully. "This is not the 'party line,' Gaza. The pureblood supporters despise 'mudbloods' and the potential disruption to power they represent. As far as I'm concerned, aside from the implicit exposure risk, muggleborns are too small a group to concern myself with. If my- what did you call them? Ah, if my 'lackeys' want to make a statement and subjugate them, I fail to see the harm in allowing them their little hobbies."

Hermione closed her eyes and grit her teeth. Practical she may be, but she could never stand aside and allow the oppression of a portion of the populace simply because they were a minority and it appeased a different, more powerful group of people. Tom was not like that. Any argument that appealed to his morality or humanity was going to fall flat. She had thought she might have an 'in' because she knew how he valued magical blood, but she hadn't considered that he simply decided to sacrifice some to secure funding and loyalty from more powerful players.

"This is my hard-line," Hermione stated as calmly as she could. "I'll leave the topic of muggles to a later time and accept that I may never sway you on those views, but you don't even believe the blood purity rhetoric and that's my price. I want you to get rid of that platform and I want muggleborns to have the same status as purebloods in this new world you're building."

Tom studied her blankly and she sat in silence, waiting for him to either acknowledge or deny her. The tension in the air seemed so thick to her and yet she got the distinct impression that Tom was completely at ease. She wondered if she would ever feel on equal footing with him. Sitting across from him, negotiating the entire course of her life, she felt distinctly like a little girl trying on an adult woman's shoes. It was if she was piling boxes to stand on in an attempt to reach the adult's table where he sat easily.

"Done," Tom said finally. Hermione let out a breath of relief, but he interrupted her. "With the following caveats: it can't be done overnight. It will have to be subtle. I won't risk losing the support of any of my major financial backers before they are even marked. And I can't guarantee that the Death Eaters will ever be publicly pro-muggleborn, only that we won't be outwardly aggressive and any policy I implement once I'm in power will reflect subtle equality."

He took a drink of his tea and shrugged. "I should also point out that as my bondmate, your opinion will likely hold sway over the masses and YOU can be as publicly pro-muggleborn as you like. So long as I pat you on the head like a little girl who has adorable, eccentric ideas and keep my opinions outwardly pro-magical bloodlines, non-specific of course, the pureblood supremacists in my inner circle will fail to acknowledge you as a threat while the populace at large still heeds your words."

Hermione glanced down at the parchment in front of her sullenly and made a few notes. It was likely the best offer she was going to get and she had, after all, been willing to travel back in time and die to change the future. She supposed she should be willing to live to change it as well.

"I accept your proposal," Hermione sighed in what felt suspiciously like defeat and victory wrapped together.

"Of course you do," Tom replied easily with an appealing upturn of his full lips. "Now, show me what we've cobbled together."

Hermione sighed again but pushed the parchment over to him for review.

 _Hermione Mortenson agrees the following:_

 _To provide information regarding horcrux creation and destruction_

 _To aide Tom in avoiding future mishaps, including but not limited to becoming incorporeal_

 _To compile known particulars of Death Eaters, present and upcoming_

 _To offer details of future political affairs_

 _To aide in a political coup of Britain, Immortality, and elevating Tom's personal status_

 _To marry Tom Riddle in a binding ceremony and to honor whatever vows are agreed upon in addition to those listed above_

 _Tom Riddle agrees to the following:_

 _To protect Hermione from all who would harm her to the best of his ability_

 _To quietly do away with anti-muggleborn politics and move towards pro-magical blood rhetoric_

 _To allow Hermione influence and ambitions of her own, within the confines of Tom's politics_

 _To provide a place in the new world order as Tom's wife, second in importance and status only to Tom_

 _To marry Hermione Mortenson in a binding ceremony and to honor whatever vows are agreed upon in addition to those listed above_

Tom made a thoughtful noise and fixed her with stunning, dark brown eyes. "You conveniently forgot the bits about absolute honesty and devotion."

She offered him a wry, slightly pained grin. "Those parts will be guaranteed through the actual bonding ceremony, I'm sure."

He laughed, a full throaty sound that had her mouth dropping open at the rich, decadent deliciousness of it. "You're right, of course. I will be seeking that in my entreaties. I wonder what you will seek, Gaza."

"I suppose you'll find out soon enough," she murmured, chewing on her lower lip. "How soon, actually, will we be doing this binding? Now that I think of it, you haven't specified."

"We have a full moon in three days," Tom said with a shrug as he stood to put his teacup in the sink. "Lunar magics always indicate a bonding at the full or new moon to be the most powerful and I'd rather not wait."

"Three days," Hermione repeated in a resigned tone. So soon, but really, was there any point in waiting? "I'm afraid to ask what ceremony you have in mind. What about Aevitas Pignoro?"

He narrowed his eyes and smiled in a cruel fashion that had a shudder running along her spine as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. "No. Aeternum Adstringo."

Hermione could not help the groan that wrenched from her mouth. The man would give no concessions. The Aevitas Pignoro, or common name the Lifetime Pledge, was a light binding with plenty of breathing and wiggle room. The bind on her soul and her magic would be there, but it was like a flexible cord.

Conversely, Aeternum Adstringo was grey magic, but as restrictive as one could possibly go without becoming illegal. It did not have a common name as it was so rarely used by anyone since the 11th or 12th century but the Latin translation made the meaning clear enough. Aeternum: forever, always, perpetually. Adstringo: detain, constrict, enmesh. It would be as a chain around her magical core.

"You are aware that will bind you just as tightly as I?" She asked incredulously. "You will never be free of me, never be able to touch another woman. Just as surely as our bond will fetter me, it will fetter you."

In two strides Tom stood in front of her and wrenched her to her feet, pulling her harshly into his chest. She felt all the air rush out of her lungs as his arm wrapped around her waist while his other slid up her back with a hand nestled around the base of Hermione's neck, securing her in place. Not that it was needed, she was far too shocked to struggle at the moment.

"Why should I ever need to touch another woman, little Gaza?" He whispered into her ear, his soft lips caressing the shell so lightly she wasn't quite sure he was there at all. "You are brilliant, pretty, and most importantly, magically powerful. I can feel it crackle in the air around you, no matter how you try to hide it from me by not doing any real spell work. My WARDS can feel it. Sensible and intriguing, not to mention your stunning mind has so many little jewels to explore, so much information for me to mine."

His mouth dipped to her neck where he ran his teeth lightly along the curve of her shoulder and back up as Hermione felt her knees begin to buckle. Tom was darkly beautiful and she was painfully unfamiliar with the charms of men; it was blatantly unfair. He was describing her as someone would an acquisition, not a woman he wanted for his own, but his voice was hypnotic and his body was hot against hers. It was too easy to get lost in him and not even want to find one's way back.

"Sex magic, the power we release at the exact moment of orgasm; I have no doubt you know just how potent that is," Tom murmured against her skin. He pulled back and met her wide eyes with his hungry, dark ones. "Why would someone like me ever want anyone but the very best for that? I won't settle for anything less than someone who can match me, and you are the only woman who will ever come close. Believe me, I've had enough of them throw themselves at my feet."

He lowered his head until his lips were brushing hers as he spoke. "I know exactly what the Aeternum Adstringo will give me, Gaza. I do nothing without thought. Do you imagine the bond will be a problem?"

Hermione's back bowed into him as his lips pressed against hers in a chaste and yet mind-blowing kiss. Maybe it was his charisma, maybe it was his magic, or maybe it was just chemistry but that whisper of a kiss set every nerve she had on fire and destroyed any hope she still held on to that she would manage to hide away a piece of herself from him.

Tom Riddle was going to strip away every defense she had and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it.

He pulled back ever so slightly and rest his head on her forehead. Both Hermione and Tom were breathing far heavier than such a small intimacy should ever be able to cause. He granted her a small, knee melting smile and she couldn't respond with anything resembling an expression. Instead, she just fought to regain her breath and some semblance of normalcy.

"You see," Tom told her, eyes lowering briefly to her lips once more before he gently settled her into her previously occupied seat and stepped back. "I don't have any concerns."

Hermione swallowed hard before she began to gather her papers back up with flushed cheeks. "I need to go for now," she managed to tell him as she pulled her bag onto her shoulder.

He nodded once before leading her to the door with a scorching hand on the small of her back.

"Tomorrow," Tom started when they reached the threshold. "We have a monthly dinner, my followers and I, after which there is a short meeting to discuss ongoing projects and new business. I'd like you to come and introduce you to everyone. You will be working closely with these men moving forward, after all, and we need to pick someone to perform the ceremony for us. As a gift, I thought to let you decide."

"How kind," Hermione remarked dryly at the thought of selecting a Death Eater to preside over her marriage to the Dark Lord.

"Where are you staying, so I can meet you to escort you there?" He asked as he opened the door and pulled back the wards.

"The Leaky," she answered, stepping outside.

"Be ready at Seven, semi-formal dress," Tom said with a slight smirk as he brushed his lips over her knuckles. "Until tomorrow, Gaza."

"Goodnight Tom," Hermione answered quietly as she headed towards Diagon Alley.

Her head was still fuzzy as she walked through the door to the Leaky Cauldron and ambled up the stairs to her room. It wasn't until a few hours later as she sank into a steaming hot bath that finally allowed herself to panic at her future dinner with Death Eaters, the upcoming marriage, and most of all, that barely-there kiss from Tom Riddle that threatened her very sanity.


	5. Dinner with Death Eaters

**AN: There is a pinterest board for this story, and I've added pictures of the Cast as well as a few other references from this and previous chapters. Enjoy!**

 **www .pinterest avajunewrites/the-pendulum-of-the-mind/**

Tom arrived outside the Leaky Cauldron at exactly quarter to seven to escort Hermione Mortenson to dinner. He had spent much of the day working on an acquisition for Borgin and Burke with the younger son of the Selwyn House but he had found that his will and intellect weren't really turned to the task. Instead, his mind wondered constantly to the little treasure waiting for him in an old pub in Diagon Alley and just how that girl would handle breaking bread with his followers.

He imagined tonight would be fascinating in any number of ways.

Hermione had made it perfectly clear that she expected protection as a contingent of their upcoming bonding, but Tom had mused with not a small amount of delight that until they were bonded, no such vow was in place. Of course, he would not let any serious harm come to her; it would not do to let anyone damage or truly upset something of his own. However, the girl wanted to play with the big boys and while most people, in general, were of questionable intelligence, he had more than one follower who was rarely matched in wit and cunning.

He also had followers who could barely put on their trousers but it wasn't those whose interaction with his Gaza he wished to observe.

Hermione emerged from the front door and glanced around before her eyes fell on him. She was dressed impeccably in silk fitted witch's robes the color of pomegranate and slightly less sensible heels than anything he had seen her in previously. The scoop neckline revealed just enough cleavage to be enticing without crossing over into vulgarity and with sleeves that extended only to her elbow, her rune carvings were on full display. She pulled on a cloak to shield her from the chill in the October air and hurried over to him.

As usual, Tom brushed his lips over the back of her knuckles, lingering perhaps a bit longer than necessary this time, and he watched with satisfaction as she blushed.

"Hello Ms. Mortenson," Tom greeted her as he straightened. "You look exquisite this evening."

The color on the girl's cheeks deepened and he bit back a smirk. "Thank you, Mr. Riddle."

"Please," he told her coolly as he brushed back a stray curl that had escaped from the braided up-do atop her head. "Call me Tom. We are, after all, soon to be wed."

Hermione paled ever so slightly and he had to bite back a laugh.

She nibbled her lip as she looked up at him through her lashes. "Then you should stop calling me Miss Mortenson as well, should you not?"

"You never asked," he pointed out.

She took a quick deep breath and glanced around before meeting his eyes once more. "I'm asking now."

"Noted," Tom conceded easily with a cold smile. "On the subject of our bonding, however, I have something for you."

Tom reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the long box holding his selection from the shops which he had acquired earlier today. He did not hand it to Hermione but rather flicked the lid open and held the piece out for her to study as her eyes widened and her mouth fell agape.

"Oh Tom, I don't think-" Hermione protested as she took a small involuntary step back, much to his amusement. "Why would you buy me jewelry? This is far too much."

Tom chuckled as he removed the necklace from the box and yanked her arm to bring her back in front of him. On a rose gold chain that he suspected would lay nestled between her breasts was a 15 carat, twisted briolette cut natural emerald. He didn't ask for permission as he steered her to face away from him and he placed the necklace around her creamy neck.

"Hush, Gaza," he said, speaking over the sound of her protests as he fastened the chain. "It is entirely customary for your fiancé-" Tom paused, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the word, but continued, "-to present you with an engagement present. Furthermore, I tend to brand my things as my own and I suspect you would object to wearing my mark on your skin."

He turned her around to face him and watched as she gaped at him, mouth moving with no sound coming out as her mind fought to break through her surprise and if he wasn't mistaking the look in her eyes, her panic.

"Of course, if you'd prefer, I'd be happy to return the necklace and give you the dark mark just like all the rest of my 'lackeys' will one day wear."

Hermione clutched at the emerald and shook her head, finally finding her voice. "I am not a thing and I am certainly not a lackey. I don't 'belong' to anyone."

"Of course," Tom answered smoothly, albeit ambiguously. "So then, the necklace or the mark?"

He fought back a smile as he watched her lift her foot as if she was going to stomp it and instead take a few deep breaths, setting her foot back down deliberately.

"Fine, Tom," she said through gritted teeth. "I will wear the necklace. But I will not concede that it means what you seem to think it does. It's an engagement gift, not a- Not some sort of collar."

Tom shrugged and extended an arm. "You are free to think whatever you wish in that pretty little head of yours," he acceded. "Now come along. We're already a bit late and I'd rather not keep everyone waiting much longer."

He watched her bristle at his refusal to acknowledge her little rebellion and stare at him with fiery denial even as she took his arm. That, of course, suited him fine. If you allowed people their notions and they still did exactly what you desired, what mattered it what they told themselves so they could fall asleep at night? He did not bother to hide his smirk as he pulled her side-along on to dinner.

They landed just inside the gates of a property holding extensive gardens, orchards, and a large manor house. Hermione, Tom noted, was paying little attention to her surroundings as she fingered his gift and eyed it as if it might bite her.

"It's not cursed," he told her with a bit of annoyance.

"I know that," she murmured absentmindedly. "I'm just wondering how you could afford this."

Hermione's eyes widened and she paled as she seemed to realize what she had just said aloud, but Tom could not stop the laugh at her mortified and slightly nervous expression. He supposed another man might be sensitive about a perceived insult to his Gringotts vault, but Tom had never been very concerned with money except as how it related to power. It was a plebeian concern, and he was above it.

He could, however, understand her immediate concern at offending him. It tended to be a mistake with nasty consequences.

"As amusing as your discomfort is, allow me to soothe your concerns," he said. "Why would I ever worry about wealth? I own a Nott, a Malfoy, and two Blacks, among other men. Everything that they are and that they have has been given to me freely, galleons included."

Hermione groaned as they walked up the front steps arm in arm and approached the large double doors. "You can't own PEOPLE, Tom," she protested.

Tom put a hand on the door and studied her for a moment before he pushed it open and ushered her in with a hand on the small of her back.

"I do believe, Gaza, that you will find that I absolutely can."

A gnarled house elf waited to take their cloaks and usher them into a parlor where it seemed that all his followers were milling about. His people were well aware he despised to be kept waiting and therefore always tried to gather early. Arriving after Tom was tempting fate and a mistake one was not likely to make twice.

The master of the house approached them as the room quieted down, slight bows and murmurs of 'my Lord' rising from the couches and where a group stood by the fireplace.

"Good evening, my Lord," Livius Nott greeted him with a bow of his own. Livius glanced at the woman standing at Tom's side but said nothing, looking towards Tom for direction on how to proceed. Instead of speaking, Tom simply indicated the love seat with a raised eyebrow and Livius obediently retreated and sat down.

Reaching over, Tom rested his hand on the small of Hermione's back once more as he pulled her further into his side. "Gentleman," he began evenly, as utter silence descended on the room at the sound of his voice, "And Ladies, it is my duty to introduce you to a new face in our midst. This is Hermione Mortenson, of the Danish Mortensons."

He glanced over at the woman at his side to gauge her reaction to being under the scrutiny of his lovely band of killers only to see her face set in a bland, aristocratic expression. 'Good girl,' he thought with the tiniest bit of fondness.

"Hermione is to be an unmatchable asset to our cause-" Tom bit back a smile as she stiffened under his hand and her eyes widened ever so slightly "-for her knowledge and insight is unparalleled. Our Ms. Mortenson is a seer."

His Death Eaters, the ones in his innermost circle at least, were outwardly stoic men, to a one. The only other people here, their wives, were by necessity blessed with the ability to adapt the same cold demeanor as their partners. But Tom watched carefully for reactions among his followers as a few hands spasmed almost imperceptibly, eyes widened, and mouths twitched up slightly at the implications.

Hermione sucked in a short gasp of air, but to her credit, remained silent.

"This information is completely confidential. It is my desire that no one but those in this room be made aware of her gifts." Tom smiled coldly at his Death Eaters and noticed a few were unable to repress their shiver. "You will all take an unbreakable vow before you leave here tonight to guard this information, on pain of death. And I assure you, I do mean _pain_ of death, but you are all viscerally aware of that already. I'm sure you hardly need reminders?"

"No, my Lord," Livius answered for them as the de-facto mouthpiece for the Death Eaters. "We understand."

As Tom's second, if it could be said that he had such a thing, Livius often spoke for the group and managed them in such a way that individual members could avoid Tom's aggravation over trivial matters. It was an arrangement that suited everyone, including the Dark Lord himself, who found most of his followers only slightly less annoying than the average person. A necessity, followers were, but a tedious one.

"Excellent," Tom agreed smoothly, turning Hermione and steering her towards the dining hall. "Meeting adjourned until after dinner."

His followers rose to follow in his wake and he paused, turning ever so slightly to look over his shoulder.

"I almost forgot," he said softly, watching every eye fix to him once more.

"In two days' time, Ms. Mortenson will become Mrs. Hermione Riddle."

There was no mistaking the stutter that ran through the group as shock cascaded in a beautiful symphony along the faces of those he kept closest to him. Tom did so love to shock the masses, even if it was only his inner circle this particular time.

"She'll be selecting a bonder from amongst you tonight, so keep that in mind if you yearn for the honor of participating in the marriage of your Lord."

Turning away he resumed walking towards the dining hall and returned his attention to the woman at his side. He noticed Hermione was biting back grimace and he quirked an eyebrow at the expression on the witch's face.

"Is something wrong, Hermione?" Tom murmured softly so only she could hear.

She grit her teeth then and leaned in so that her breath caressed his ear as she answered. "That's the same, you know. The way you are so very theatrical. You have always loved to watch people squirm."

Tom licked his lips and smothered the smirk threatening to take over his face at her observation. "What, you thought it was all Crucios and evisceration? Of course I strive to be entertaining, even while I entertain myself at their expense. What sort of leader lacks charisma and fails to stimulate the minds of his devotees?"

He shrugged as they crossed the threshold into the room where a long table sat covered in china and fancy napkins in the shape of rosebuds. "Regardless, there are different rules of etiquette for meetings than there are for social occasions, such as dinner."

Tom pulled out the chair to the left of the head of the table and she sent him a quizzical look as she sat and allowed him to tuck her in. He shook his head and shot her a slow, lazy smirk, enjoying the way her cheeks tinted despite herself in response. He had always enjoyed the perks of being attractive, of course, but never quite so much as when this woman fawned over him when she tried so desperately hard not to.

"You'll see," he told her vaguely as he seated himself to her right at the top of the arrangement.

His followers found their normal seats, although everyone to his left was pushed down a spot. Livius settled himself across from Hermione and glanced at Tom for a flicker of a moment before turning his attention to the woman in front of him.

'Here we go,' Tom thought to himself with a smile he concealed behind a sip of the fire whiskey that had appeared in front of him.

"Please allow me to introduce myself, my Lady," Livius started, rising ever so slightly so he could brush his lips an inch above her knuckles. "I'm Livius Nott, and this my wife, Calliope."

He indicated the woman beside him who smiled tentatively at Hermione. When Hermione returned the expression warmly, Calliope's own smile relaxed.

"It's truly lovely to meet you both," she replied. Tom watched as Hermione turned to her left at the sound of an annoyed sigh with her eyes hard and a somewhat smug expression on her face that he had not had the pleasure of seeing before.

"You must be Abraxas Malfoy," she stated blandly with an almost sneer that had Tom struggling not to snort in amusement in a very un-lordly way.

No one sneered at Abraxas, although Tom supposed he would if he ever bothered to sneer. That was usually Malfoy's own signature look.

Abraxas raised a single aristocratic eyebrow and eyed her with lightly curbed derision. "I am Lord Malfoy, yes, and this is Lady Elspeth Malfoy. Forgive me, I've never heard of the Mortenson family, although I admit I've never paid much mind to Danish pedigrees. Should I know your family name, or are you perhaps some... obscure line, relegated to history in the modern world?"

Hermione's teeth flashed in a sharp smile as Elspeth sniffed a bit disdainfully and took a sip of her wine. Tom took another drink of his fire whiskey as his Death Eaters watched the verbal sparring match, undoubtedly sizing up his soon to be bondmate.

"You'll find, Abraxas," Hermione told him, pointedly ignoring his indication that she was not granted leave to use his first name casually, "I put little stock in most-what did you call them?- Oh, yes. 'Pedigrees.' I put even less stock in those that seem to believe they can skirt through life on the strength of that claim alone."

Abraxas smiled coldly. "Surely you understand the viewpoints of the group which you aspire to join and the importance we place on such."

"Aspire to join?" Hermione bit out a mirthless laugh and took a drink of the wine in front of her. She wrinkled her nose at her glass and deftly stole the fire whiskey from in front of Abraxas, leaving the man to raise both eyebrows as his mouth tightened. "I don't know if you heard, but I'm about to be bound to your Dark Lord entirely. Aeternum Adstringo, you know. No aspirations here, my new friend. I'm in."

Livius met Tom's eyes with a banked sort of amused incredulity and Tom nodded imperceptibly. As enjoyable as watching her spar with Abraxas was (and really, it was entertainment of the best sort,) it was time to move this little tete-a-tete along to include the rest of the table.

"So you're obviously familiar with our key politician," Livius interrupted before Malfoy could retort. "Allow me to introduce the rest of our esteemed colleagues."

He turned to point to the man sitting beside Calliope. "This is Radolphous Lestrange the third. He's a master of Runes and puzzles as well as a curse breaker at Gringotts. And next to him is his lovely wife, Angua."

Tom watched as Hermione's eyes shuddered and her hand convulsed slightly around her pilfered glass before she forced herself to relax and grant the couple a polite smile. "A prestigious career, indeed, Radalphous."

"Please," Radalphous demurred with a small upturn of his lips. "Call me Rad, everyone else does. And thank you, I am quite proud of my achievements both at Gringotts and in using my skills to further our aims, of course." The man inclined his head politely to Tom before turning his eyes back to Hermione. "Do you have an interest in curse breaking?"

An unfettered laugh rang from Hermione's throat before she answered with a small smile. "Goblins and I have historically had a bit of a conflict of interests. But I have always had a love of runes."

She held out her arm for Radolphous to study and Tom watched as at least 3 of the wives flinched backwards from the table. Any respectable pureblood woman would glamour away any scars that she had and would certainly not purposefully mar her own skin. The men, however, seemed torn between fascination and restrained arousal.

Tom's eyes narrowed momentarily, but he restrained himself from acting impulsively. It was true that his followers had a rarely replicated attraction to all things violent and bloody but no man at this table would cross him by touching a woman he claimed, even if she presented herself nude and begged to be taken. It went without saying that if he thought Hermione was a woman who would do so, he would not have claimed her in the first place. He suspected the time period she came from was more sexually liberated, but he also knew his Gaza was not one to give away her power easily. She also was far too intelligent not to understand that sex was power.

Radolphous reached a hand out and traced over the runes on her forearm without touching her skin, clearly intrigued by the pattern before he sat back in his chair and eyed her with new-found respect.

"A love of runes, indeed," he said with a raised glass.

Introductions were interrupted briefly as the house elves arrived with the soup. After everyone had settled and began eating, Livius turned to the next man in line and resumed.

"This is-"

"Antonin Dolohov," Hermione interrupted, eyes on her soup as she spooned a mouthful between her lips.

Antonin glanced at the woman in confusion then at Tom for some indication of how she knew him, but Tom was not watching his Death Eater. His eyes instead were fixed on the nervous flutter of his Gaza's eyelashes and the way her leg was bouncing under the table.

'I am painfully familiar with what your lackeys are capable of,' she had told him not a day ago. Judging by her current response, when she had referred to his lackeys, she certainly meant Dolohov.

Tom made the decision that he would explore that particular weakness later. There was no need to expose her in front of a pit of snakes and no matter how much he enjoyed watching her parry with his followers, he had no intention of leaving her truly vulnerable.

Tom met Livius' eye and made a gesture that indicated the man should move along.

Livius inclined his head and pointed to the last couple on his side of the table. "Down there we have Bastien Rosier and his wife, Jocelend. Bastien is the captain of the Aurors."

Jocelend smiled widely and gave a small wave towards Hermione at his introduction while Bastien simply nodded to her. Hermione smiled back and Jocelend leaned in front of her husband to speak, while the man eyed her with amused fondness.

"Miss Mortenson," Jocelend said with open earnestness, "do you need any help picking out things for the wedding? I hate to interrupt the get to know you portion of the evening, but I hope with a bonding in two days that you have everything ready."

Hermione choked on her soup and Tom snorted before he could help himself, ignoring the glare the girl shot him as he eyed her pleasantly and waited for her response.

"Um, Jocelend, was it? We aren't -and please, call me Hermione- We aren't having any sort of big ceremony. Just the two of us and the bonder, I believe."

Jocelend frowned but quickly recovered herself. "And your robes?"

Hermione stuttered and took a drink of her pilfered fire whiskey. "I hadn't actually-"

"Oh, DO let us help you, in that case," Jocelend insisted with an easy grin. "Myself and Calliope would love to, I'm sure, help you find something suitable. Any of the rest of you would be welcome, of course."

Her mouth tightened at the end and she didn't actually look around in invitation as Elspeth sniffed disdainfully once more and the Black wives exchanged a look that said in no uncertain terms they would not be attending that shopping trip.

Hermione smiled tightly. "Of course," she said through a slightly clenched jaw. "That would be lovely."

Livius broke the moment with a slight cough as he moved along the table. "Lastly on this side, is Thaddeus Mulciber. He's-" Nott paused, then continued on vaguely. "He works independently."

Mulciber looked up from his soup to Tom, clearly searching to see if he was required to respond in some fashion. When Tom simply looked back at him, Mulciber turned back to his soup without comment, and Livius opened his mouth to continue.

"Another face I know," Hermione interrupted, waving her hand down the table flippantly, "or family, more accurately."

Hermione glanced down to the seat past Elspeth. "You're a Black."

Orion smirked and tilted his head as if studying her. "I certainly am, my Lady. Orion Black, at your service. Pray tell, how do you know that?"

"Black hair and grey eyes," Hermione answered, smiling at the Eldest Black almost wistfully, "mischievousness practically pouring off of you and that strong jaw. You look just like him."

Orion smiled and leaned around the Malfoys. "Do you know one of my relatives?"

Hermione's eyes clouded over and she turned back to her now empty place setting, just as the elves emerged with the main course.

"In a manner of speaking," was all she said as she began to pick at her roast beef.

Orion's smile widened but his wife cut off whatever he intended to say next.

"The most Ancient and Noble House of Black has many branches, some more rotted than others," she intoned dismissively. "It is no surprise that this girl would have come across some distant, likely less savory, relation."

Hermione's eyes flashed with an unexpected rage and she turned on the woman who was eying her as if Hermione was something on the bottom of her expensive shoe. "Quite the opposite, Walburga. I was referring to the son you will bear who will resemble his father physically in many ways but resemble you in so very few."

A collective breath was sucked in around the table and Tom grit his teeth in annoyance as Hermione let her temper get the better of her. Another weakness that would need addressing, and one he did not need everyone at this table to learn too terribly well. Punishing those who displeased you was one thing, but allowing your mouth to run away with you was another thing entirely.

It was so painfully Gryffindor.

"He will not be unsavory at all," Hermione continued, "but rather noble and good and a great many things I suspect you will fail to comprehend entirely."

"No prophecy at the dinner table," Tom cut in dryly, eying Hermione with a warning inherent in his gaze. She opened her mouth to protest but as his eyes darkened further, closed it with an audible snap.

Future knowledge was to be used to further his ends, not to taunt his followers in an impulsive battle of wits. Not that he minded if his Gaza wanted to play with them; that was a perfectly acceptable pastime and she was, after all, to be second only to him. However, Hermione had revealed herself to be far too emotional of a being to be counted upon not to reveal herself if he allowed her to explore that route at the current moment.

The final Death Eaters at the table, Cygnus Black and Corvus Avery, could be introduced after the meal, Tom decided. After all, there was still an entire strategy meeting to attend to before the evening was over.

He glanced over at the girl as she ate her potatoes with an exactness born of a woman concealing a fury that roiled under the surface. He could see the control she exhibited in an attempt not to force his hand or undermine him in front of his followers and while he found that to be a sound decision, it was obvious that her restraint was not going to hold.

Tom sighed as he realized he'd have to find her an outlet for that pique before she made the poor and impulsive decision to vent her aggravation at him.

He would be thoroughly vexed if he was forced to damage his favorite jewel just when he was starting to truly enjoy her.


	6. Strategies and Designs

As Hermione stood at the end of dinner to make her way back into the sitting room, she felt herself wobble ever so slightly on her feet and came to the rather disturbing conclusion that she was possibly just the slightest bit drunk.

Hermione Granger was inebriated at a dinner party with Death Eaters. Well. Clearly her decision-making skills had not improved much since she agreed to bind her soul to Lord Voldemort's yesterday.

Tom's arm wrapped around her waist as he steered her towards the designated room and she focused on not hexing the man in a fit of pique. Dinner had been more of a battle than a meal and the combatants at the table were her new supposed colleagues in the great cause of world domination or something to that effect. All she really wanted at this point was to hit everyone in the room with a petty 'Slugulus Eructo' and flee back to the Leaky into a nice warm bath so she could forget this evening, this year, and that this whole harebrained plan of hers had ever happened.

Hermione settled herself on the loveseat next to the only other female in the room, Calliope Nott, and offered the woman a weak smile before drowning in her thoughts once more. She was in so terribly far over her head.

Dealing with Tom himself was exhausting, and she always walked away from their discussions feeling as if she had been confunded. How, exactly, did he get her so off-balance as to convince her to agree to things she quite frankly knew she shouldn't? Earlier today she had gone back over the terms of their upcoming contractually binding nuptials and she had been appalled by how very much of herself she seemed willing to give away.

Who was this girl who was so easily lured in by a pretty face and a husky voice? She was bloody Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age and all that rot! But get her around Tom Marvelo Riddle and she seemed to lose all her senses.

Except, that wasn't quite a fair assessment, was it? After all, she still demanded things and she wasn't a pushover or a puddle of hormones just because he smiled at her. Despite her absolute inexperience with men, she truly did not think her mind was being turned to mush simply because the man was pretty. But even though she pushed back, he somehow always ended up making his point so well that she could not help but be overwhelmed by the logic of what he was saying. If the pragmatic argument he put forth didn't do the job completely, the sheer force of his will and personality was there to finish the job. Then, upon later reviewing the conversation, she would wonder how on earth she had ever felt so assured in his statements.

After reviewing what she knew of Tom and going over their interactions whilst she ate breakfast this morning (NOT rice and beans praise the gods,) she had decided it had to be something about the psychological makeup of the man, just as she had posited before coming to this time, that was throwing her so off-balance. Psychopaths were known for their effective manipulations and ability to steer others, so unless she wanted to find herself the victim of an abusive spouse with no remorse for his actions, she needed to learn more about what made him tick. She had been prepared for cruelty and rage and narcissism, but she had been utterly unprepared for charm and charisma and possessiveness.

Hermione had assumed he'd strive to kill her, not keep her.

And while she still had not yet sorted out exactly what her strategy was going to be, because it had become abundantly clear that she could not trust herself to make any decisions what-so-ever until she was no longer sitting in front of him, she was now entrenched in discussions with not just Tom but a whole pit of writhing and sneaky snakes. In fact, she would not be surprised if some of these men were fantasizing right this second about the moment they would attempt to unhinge their jaws and devour her whole like a rather large boa constrictor.

'Thank you, Tom, for a lovely evening out,' she thought to herself bitterly.

Once everyone was settled in the sitting room, Hermione forced her mind back to her current predicament and attempted desperately to focus her slightly whiskey-soaked brain to the task of not being destroyed mentally by the Death Eaters around her. She could not afford to show them weakness or a lack of intelligence, that much was clear.

Tom was sitting in an armchair directly to her right while studying the room with a neutral expression, looking every bit like the King on the throne that he fancied himself to be. He smiled coldly towards the man who looked so incredibly much like Draco Malfoy that it made her teeth itch and nodded.

"Abraxas," Tom began. "How are things in the office of the Minister?"

Calliope casually adjusted herself on the seat, leaning inconspicuously forward and whispering so only Hermione could hear her.

"Malfoy is Junior Assistant to the Minister," she breathed into Hermione's ear.

Abraxas scratched along his jaw and bowed ever so slightly to Tom, even as he remained seated.

"Our dearest Minister Wilhelmina Tuft continues on with her noble work of being duller than rock, and twice as dense," he answered with a smirk. "Her son and I are working closely on laying the groundwork for her inevitable 'retirement.' When the time is right, he is prepared to take on the mantle of the office."

"And Ignatius remains loyal to our Lord and our aims?" Livius verified.

Abraxas addressed his answer to Tom. "He remains your ever-faithful servant, my Lord."

Tom rolled his eyes in response. "Gentleman, let's keep this gathering at dinner party etiquette. I have not called an official meeting specifically to help ease the nerves of my future bride."

He shifted her eyes to her and offered a smoldering smile that had Hermione's heart beating in trepidation even as her cheeks betrayed her by pinking.

Abraxas inclined his head slightly, though his expression cooled further. "My apologies, Tom," he murmured.

Tom said nothing but made a motion with his hand that indicated they should get on with it and Livius cleared his throat.

"Bastien, tell us about your efforts in the Auror's office," Livius said.

The man in question groaned and rubbed his hand across his face. "A lot of the up and comers are absolute idiots," he stated bluntly, "but they were also raised at their Papa's knee learning about the superiority of their blood, despite what they lack in intelligence. They are more than happy to follow anyone who tells them they're special."

Bastien paused to consider before continuing. "There is one, Jerrod Bulstrode, who has a sharp mind and a very quick wand. He's a pureblood, of course, and adheres to many of our ideals. He's quiet, but he has been coming to me more and more with concerns about how limiting the Auror's training curriculum is when it comes to what curses we are and aren't authorized to use."

Tom tilted his head and considered for a moment before shrugging. "Wring more information from him before making an attempt to cultivate him. Being forced to obliviate an Auror is a complication that would be unnecessary and unhelpful at this point."

"As you say, Lord Riddle," Bastien agreed with an incline of his head.

Hermione turned slightly towards Calliope as Livius was moving the meeting along to Orion Black. "Why did Abraxas call him 'Tom' but Bastien call him 'Lord Riddle'?" She whispered.

Calliope's mouth lifted in a half-smile before she spoke again directly into Hermione's ear. "Only the original group, the Knights of Walpurgis, are allowed to call him Tom," she explained quietly. "That's my Livius, Malfoy, Dolohov, and Lestrange. Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber went to school with them, but they weren't in the inner circle. They were more like... the muscle of the group."

Hermione shivered at the idea of Tom needing 'muscle' but turned her attention back to the meeting.

"-a number of uses for the 'Dagger of Repentance,' as well as studied some of the changed properties of the blood that is spilt by it," Orion was saying. "It should be ready for Corvus to add to his arsenal in the next few weeks."

At Hermione's brief look of confusion, Tom leaned forward towards her in a caricature of intimacy, though his voice stayed at such a level that everyone if the room could hear his words.

"Orion is our Dark Arts Archivist and Researcher," he explained. "I stumbled upon a lovely little trinket while I was doing my acquisitions work and Orion has been kind enough to study it for me."

He took her hand and indicated Corvus Avery, who shot her a wolfish grin, with his other. "Corvus is quite excited for him to finish his research. As our lead... interrogator, he is always most anxious to get his hands on exciting and fun little toys."

Hermione's eyes widened minutely at the implications and clutched Tom's hand tightly, digging her fingernails into his skin as she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. Seeming to enjoy her discomfort, he turned back to Livius and nodded, indicating the man should continue the meeting. Hermione tried to pull away from him, but Tom tightened his grip on her hand painfully and she realized that she couldn't extract herself without making a scene.

"Does anyone else have any orders of business to discuss?" Livius inquired, looking around the room.

"My brother in law, Ignatius Prewitt, has been making noise about the restrictions on interactions with muggles that the Statute of Secrecy brings up," Orion stated with a furrowed brow. "He's been comparing it unfavorably to Rappaport's Law in the US and suggesting that we should have less limitations in the case that a Wizard wanted to mingle with and learn from the muggles."

Abraxas snorted disdainfully. "Learn what? How to breed like rabbits? As far as I've seen, overpopulating seems to be the only thing the muggles are superior at. Has your brother in law gone mad?"

"Doubt it," Orion replied with a cheeky smile. "I said he's a Prewitt, not a Black."

Tom waved the hand not currently holding Hermione's captive dismissively. "Put him on the list to be removed from the Wizengamot once we take over the Ministery," he said. "I'm confident that in a Sacred Twenty-Eight family we can find another Prewitt more sympathetic to our cause."

Radolphous brushed back a tendril of his auburn hair and sighed. "Speaking of the Wizengamot," he began, "the last few times we've gathered to discuss legislation, the Fawley family seems to be trying to make up for Hector Fawley's mistakes with Grindewald by championing any legislation that limits grey or dark magics. The Shacklebolts are backing them as well."

Antonin growled from the corner and Livius rolled his eyes. "Merlin, don't get him started on the Archie Shacklebolt."

"Bastard," Antonin breathed with faraway eyes and a murderous expression that forced Hermione to stay very carefully still lest she shrink away.

Tom must have sensed her discomfort, however, as he squeezed her hand in a much more comforting (if completely confusing) fashion than before and spoke over the men teasing Antonin.

"We have the Nott, Malfoy, Avery, Black, Lestrange, and Rosier seats to vote against them, not to mention the eight additional seats that have the same leanings," Tom stated coolly. "Work on securing the outliers who are not totally hopeless, like the Greengrasses and the Shafiqs, to our cause and I will eliminate the rest when the time comes."

Tom stood then, pulling Hermione up with him and tucking her into his side in such a natural movement that it was as if he'd been doing it for years. She really didn't like how easy it was being close to bloody Lord Voldemort.

"Meeting adjourned. Do your unbreakable vows before you leave," Tom ordered as he turned to lead her from the room.

He paused and glanced down at Hermione with a wicked smile. "I almost forgot, Little Gaza," he purred into her ear. Her knees suddenly felt in danger of buckling and she cursed herself because she knew it wasn't the whiskey that was the problem.

"Who have you chosen to honor with the pleasure of performing our bonding?" Tom murmured against the shell of her ear.

Hermione's eyes widened as she glanced around the room of enemies in front of her. She closed her eyes and tried very hard not to whimper. This felt like a test and for once in Hermione Granger's life, she had no idea how to pass it.

* * *

She stood in her shower later that night and let the hot water beat down on her body and, with any luck, wash her clean of this horrendous evening.

In the end, she had picked Livius Nott. She supposed she must have chosen well because Tom looked pleased with her, as if she was a puppy who had just correctly performed a marvelous trick. One had to wonder when her life had changed so drastically that pleasing the Dark Lord seemed like a victory and she groaned deep in her chest as she slumped against the shower wall.

What in the holy fuck was she doing here?

With a deep sigh, Hermione flipped the water off and stepped into the poorly lit bathroom as she dried herself off. When Tom had dropped her off at the pub, she had immediately beat a hasty retreat for fear he might kiss her again and cause the turmoil in her stomach to riot even further. A sober-up potion had forced her situation into even starker clarity and if anything, she was feeling bleaker.

For comfort, she had put up every single ward she and her boys had used that year they had been horcrux hunting before she allowed herself to strip off the beautiful yet uncomfortable robes she had donned for the evening and stepped into the water in the tiny little stall. Now she pulled on Ron's old Quidditch Jersey and a pair of ratty boxers that really could have belonged to either of them and she simply wept.

 _Honestly._ She should be all cried out at this point in time but the dinner tonight had just thrown her current loneliness back in her face in such a painful way, that she could not help but lose her composure. Her only friends in the world had been lost to her for seven years now, but the pain remained as she thought of cuddling up to Harry for warmth in that shitty tent they had, or kissing Ron when they finally, finally destroyed Hufflepuff's cup.

THAT'S how things were supposed to be. Harry was supposed to be here, all messy hair and warm hugs, married to Ginny and having her and Ron over for Sunday Quidditch that she would despise. And Ron- RON was the one who she was supposed to be bonding with, Ron was supposed to be her happily ever after, and in his absence she CERTAINLY wasn't supposed to be marrying the man responsible for his death.

Hermione wiped her eyes and sniffled even as she sat up straighter and allowed steel to move back up her spine. 'Yes,' she allowed herself for a moment, 'that is what should have happened.'

But it wasn't what HAD happened. And now, in this world, Ron and Harry were not dead, not at all. They simply weren't here yet.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter had died trying to save all of wizarding England but she would not, could not let their sacrifice be for nothing. In fact, in this world she was helping to create, they would not need to die at all.

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath and blew it out as she moved toward the bag where the agreement was. Ron, she knew, would never forgive her for binding herself to Tom Riddle. But Ron wasn't here, he wasn't, and he would never know this version of her. If she could just do this right, he wouldn't grow up in war. Harry would know and be loved by his parents, because she was going to make damn sure that prophecy never happened, even if she had to lock Professor Trelawney in a Yurt somewhere in Siberia so no one could hear her foretell anything.

And, she reminded herself as she settled at the wobbly table in the kitchenette with her notes, Tom hadn't done any of those things yet. THIS Tom Riddle, the one she was going to marry, would NOT do those things.

She looked once more over the agreement and bit her lip with a sigh. None of the things listed here were actually that bad. She didn't particularly mind helping him in a political coup (the state of the Ministry was pretty abysmal) and she couldn't bring herself to believe that encouraging him NOT to make more horcruxes was ever a bad thing. Telling him about Death Eater Betrayals was a bit tricky, but if he did not make any more horcruxes, then tattling on Regulus became a bit of a non-issue and based on her calculations, Hepzibah Smith wasn't going to come into play until December. It was a bit of tricky backdating to get herself here before Tom made two more horcruxes, but she had just managed it.

It wasn't the contract they were including in their binding that had her so incredibly nervous; it was the vows. Aeternum Adstringo had a rather interesting clause built into the ceremony, and it was here that Hermione assumed Tom intended to ensure her 'absolute honesty and devotion.' Each person was entitled to bring three entreaties to blend into the binding, secured through an herbal correspondence, that would ensure the bond worked to secure what had been requested.

For example, a person would say, "With Gardenia, I entreat your comfort," and the bond would work consistently to apply pressure to the entreated, as it were, to provide comfort for the partner who made the entreaty. This is also where she herself would be securing her protection clause. The question was, however, how to use her two additional entreaties to bring her the most benefit and what else Tom meant to secure from her.

There was also the matter of her engagement present, Hermione mused as she fingered the emerald. No matter what she said, Tom obviously saw it as an expression of ownership and that was blatantly unacceptable. In the moment, it had seemed wise to pick her battles with the mercurial man and allow him his own ideas, no matter how false, while she held fast to hers. Now, looking back, it seemed as if she had lost a major battle and it was becoming increasingly clear that unless she wanted to lose herself completely in the ocean of complexity that was Tom Riddle, she was going to have to get wiser when it came to handling him.

Hermione smoothed her hands over the parchment and closed her eyes. For one, she needed to learn to never forget what he was without allowing it to unnerve her. She had made the decision to play in the dirt with the evils of the world so that she could affect greater change overall. Every time she cringed away from the nastier things that he did, she gave away a piece of her power that she could not afford to hand him.

This, she realized in a flash of insight, could be achieved with her superior occluding. There were walls in her brain; they were simply inaccessible to Tom as he could not find them through the fog. Hermione, however, knew exactly where they all were. There was one that had been built without her consent that was creating a sort of cognitive dissonance from whom she knew Tom was in her original timeline and the man she had agreed to bind herself to in the here and now. That was why tonight she had been such an absolute wreck; the walls had cracked and some of the pain from the other timeline had leaked through to this one.

This was understandable, of course. It was basic psychology and witches, wizards, and muggles alike built walls in their minds without realizing it in order to protect them from realities that threatened their sanity and survival.

Hermione summoned a length of parchment and quill began detailing the walls she would need to knock down and the new ones she would need to create. The way her brain was currently preventing her from connecting the two figures in her head was helpful to an extent, in that it allowed her not to assign the crimes of a future that would never come to pass to the man she was currently dealing with, but she needed to be aware he was _capable_ of those things. This was how he was constantly catching her off guard and unnerving her, and that needed to stop.

Hermione sighed and stepped away to make some coffee. It was going to a long night and she had no intention of stopping until she determined what, exactly, her entreaties were going to be and just how she was going to move things around in her head. Then, of course, there were the actual meditations necessary to fiddle with her occluding. Allowing her enough ready knowledge to keep her from being blindsided while not cutting off her ability to empathize with those who suffered while not punishing Tom Riddle for future crimes he would never commit while-

'Well, as I said,' she thought tiredly. 'It's going to be a long night.'


	7. Limitations and Refusals

**AN: Sorry it took so very long to get this out! I had quite a bit of personal upheaval that needed sorted before I could sit down to write. Thank you for your patience and it is my hope that this story will go back to weekly updates now.**

 **WARNING: This chapter deals with non-graphic spousal abuse.**

Hermione awoke to the gentle rapping of a beak on glass, still seated at the unsteady and scarred wooden table in her small dimly lit kitchen. She had evidently fallen asleep at some point during the night. Wiping a rather unattractive line of spittle from the corner of her mouth and groaning when she saw the parchment detailing her agreement with Tom was now lightly stained, she moved towards the window and let in the striped owl who was waiting patiently outside her window.

She smiled as she stroked the almost soft feathers directly above its beak and crossed to the magically cooled cupboard to remove a few bits of sausage to offer the creature in exchange for the letter it bore. The owl hooted softly after gently dropping the parchment into Hermione's waiting hand, swallowing a bit of sausage whole and waiting while perched on the sill.

She crossed to the stove to flip the burner beneath the kettle on before settling at the table with yawn and picking up the bit of correspondence. The letter was addressed to 'Ms. Mortenson' in looping calligraphy, sealed with gray wax and an ornamental 'R.' Sliding a finger under the lip of the envelope and breaking the seal, she pulled out a thick, ivory sheet of parchment folded thrice and opened the letter to read.

 _Hermione,_

 _It would please us ever so much if you would_ _join a few friends and I for a fitting at_ _Twilfitt_ _and Tattings to secure appropriate robes for your upcoming nuptials, perhaps_ _followed by_ _a tea at Rosier Villa? Lord Riddle confided in me that you are staying at the Leaky;_ _we could meet out front around half-past ten and walk to the shop all together!_

 _I look forward to seeing you soon!_

 _Jocelend_

With a heavy sigh, Hermione scrubbed a hand down her tired face and summoned a piece of parchment and quill to pen a brief, affirmative response. She was reluctant to spend any extra time with Death Eaters or their associates than what was required, but these WERE the wives and she WAS about to be one of them and aside from that... she did sort of need robes for the bonding. She held out the letter, which the owl took delicately in its beak before swooping off out the window.

Hermione cast a quick 'Dies' to determine the hour. The time revealed itself to be a quarter past nine just as the kettle screeched for attention and she moved to pour herself a quick cup of strong tea before shuffling into the shabby room that served as her current bedroom. The robes and dresses hanging in her closet stood in stark contrast to the less than elegant surroundings, an expression of a somewhat dubious decision she made to spend a portion of the limited galleons she was able to secure for herself in the 1950s on the trappings of a certain image and reputation.

Along with any number of books and sentimental objects that were packed for her trip back in time, Hermione had also chosen to stuff her beaded bag with quite a few of the oddities she had managed to scavenge from the castle. It wasn't too terribly much, certainly nothing nearing a fortune, but she had brought back enough treasures with her that after everything had been sold to a variety of reputable and disreputable sources alike, Hermione was able to secure herself what was needed. Namely, a room at the Leaky Cauldron for two months, along with seven dresses, seven sets of robes and capes, two cloaks, and a variety of accessories, all of a quality that a pureblood would approve of. It had been painful to waste so much currency when she had spent such a long time in her past wondering when any REAL food would cross her metaphorical plate again, but she had needed to secure Tom Riddle's attention and, if her current predicament was any indication, her plan appeared to have worked.

Selecting a periwinkle, peplum dress that hugged her form down to slightly above her knees, Hermione finished the look by tossing a matching cape across her bed and kicking a shimmery silver pair of heels towards the outfit to put on after her hair was tamed. She crossed to where a cracked vanity sat in the corner of the room and settled herself briefly on the threadbare, cushioned stool.

The vanity table itself contained no potions bottles like other witch's beauty collections often did, but rather a single tome of hair charms and a variety of combs. These, thankfully, Hermione had not been forced to purchase as Professor Sinistra, who had a weakness for this particular decoration intended for a woman's person, had left a wealth of the things abandoned in her quarters. They were, to a one, finely wrought and beautiful. Despite whatever other concessions she had made, Hermione still could not bring herself to charm her face as so many witches did until she was hardly recognizable with rouge and lip stain. Though she had mastered the hair charms after hours and hours of practice in preparation for her trip back in time, she left her skin clear and unadorned as she had done the majority of her life.

She flipped through the pages of preening illustrations until she settled on a French Twist, flicking her wand expertly as she murmured the words to the incantation, causing her normally disobedient mane to obediently secure itself to her head. She slid a heavy silver comb adorned with lapis lazuli embellishments between her scalp and her curls before moving to her wardrobe and slipping on the undergarments and seamed stockings she was slowly growing accustomed to.

As Hermione finally smoothed the ruffles of the peplum over her hips and glanced into the scarred mirror, she was shocked once again by the composed and elegant witch who looked back at her. In her mind's eye she still saw herself as she looked during the last time she had been with her boys, the last time she truly felt alive; that year of dirty hair and dirtier clothes. She pictured herself with skinny hips and cracked fingernails and eyes that never stopped looking this way and that way, searching for the next threat or the next goal. Now though, her hips were wider and her breasts were fuller and her eyes were significantly more haunted than hunted.

She wasn't sure if she felt it an improvement, though she suspected objectively it would be considered one.

Hermione swallowed a bit heavily and shut her eyes, reminding herself once again why she was doing all this. She came back in time for Harry, for Ron, for the world, and even a teensy bit for herself.

She was going to change things.

She was going to change EVERYTHING.

With a deep breath to steel her nerves, Hermione straightened her spine and slipped on her kitten heels. Another 'Dies' showed it time to head down and meet the women she would be spending her morning (and likely much more) with, so with a quick flourish to secure her cape she moved out the door to the hallway and set her wards. She secured her wand in her hair and cast a wandless disillusionment to conceal it before heading to the front.

She was greeted by a perfectly coiffed Jocelend Rosier, along with a more relaxed looking Angua Lestrange. Calliope Nott approached from the apparition point at the same time she emerged from the building and Jocelend moved to kiss both Hermione and Calliope's cheeks.

"We're just waiting on Epona," Jocelend explained brightly, linking her arm with Hermione's while the women stood in a circle and discussed plans for the morning.

Calliope was agreeing to tea but "only if we're done before two, I have a time-sensitive brew going at home," when Hermione spotted Corvus Avery prowling towards them with a diminutive woman tucked into his side. The woman had not been introduced at the dinner party as Tom had interrupted before they had gotten to the Averys, but Hermione remembered the look in Corvus's eye when they had discussed the 'Dagger of Repentance' after dinner and she had to suppress a shudder. Jocelend's body tightened beside her and Hermione fought to keep her face impassive as curiosity at the woman's response threatened to overwhelm her.

The couple stopped in front of them and Corvus smirked at the assembled group of women before bending ever so slightly into a distinctly mocking bow. "Ladies, you're all looking well today," he drawled.

Jocelend smiled tightly and let go of Hermione, stepping forward with the clear intent to pull who must be Epona forward with her.

"Lord Avery, how lovely to see you," Jocelend said, reaching for Epona's arm.

A large hand wrapped quickly into strawberry blond locks that were more strawberry than blond and Epona was yanked backward with a barely concealed grimace of pain out of Jocelend's reach and further into Corvus's side. Hermione's fists clenched and a silent hiss escaped between her teeth.

"Just a second, Joce," Corvus admonished with a feral looking grin that was all teeth while Jocelend's shoulders visibly tightened at the nickname. "Let me say goodbye to my wife."

Corvus used the hold he had on Epona's hair to turn her face and kiss her possessively, ignoring the way she stiffened into the kiss even as he pried her lips apart with his tongue. This was pureblood society, not muggle London where kissing so openly would be met with an eye roll and a snicker or two. Here in Diagon Alley as a pureblood elite, Hermione had read enough and seen enough to know one certainly did not kiss any woman that one considered a lady out in the open like THAT. Epona's cheeks tinted in embarrassment and humiliation while all of the other women averted their eyes in an attempt to diminish in some small way the woman's discomfort.

Hermione's fingernails dug into her palms as she considered the best way to extricate the witch in front of her from her husband without risking harm to Epona herself. His wand was hidden, likely in a sheath somewhere unknown, and the Lady Avery was currently between Hermione and the Death Eater like a rather inconvenient human shield.

After far too long, Corvus released Epona's lips only to smile down at her condescendingly. "Now, try to be good, Princess," he told his wife who he still held tightly by the hair. "Wouldn't want to hear about you girls getting into any trouble. Where was it you were going again?"

The woman swallowed and looked down causing Corvus to tut and force her head up with a painful tug to meet his gaze. He raised an eyebrow in warning, some silent communication passing between the two before Epona swallowed and smiled shakily.

"We're going to Twilfitt and Tattings," she told him quietly. "And after, to Rosier Villa for tea."

He released her hair to run a finger along her jaw and Epona flinched involuntarily. The world slowed and the same sort of film that covered her mind in the heat of battle began to shift into place. Calm crept through her veins as she determined that a strong stunning spell would likely work on both of them and then Epona could simply be woken while she secured Corvus. Her hand casually raised to her hair, intent on drawing her wand, when Calliope was suddenly beside her, gripping her wrist tightly and shaking her head imperceptibly.

Corvus ignored the flinch and smiled, grasping Epona's chin in his hand as he glanced at the women around him before placing a gentle kiss on his wife's forehead. "I certainly hope that's where you're going. I can't very well keep you safe if I don't always know where you are," he said with a chilling smile as his fingers dug into Epona's chin. "Be home by three, yeah? We have plans this afternoon."

Epona blinked rapidly and seemed to slump ever so slightly at the thought of home but she gave her husband a weak, small smile and nodded as best she could with his fingers clutching her chin.

"Of course, Corvus," she agreed quietly.

He released her and bowed once more to the assembled women before turning and strolling away, whistling some melody as he moved further down the street. Jocelend immediately pulled Epona to her side with her arm linked through the other woman's and everyone stood in grim vigil, watching as Corvus's form grew ever smaller. As soon as he was out of sight, Jocelend pulled the slightly shaking woman around a different corner and into an alleyway while the rest of them trailed after her.

The calm had already fled and outrage began to pump through Hermione's veins as she wheeled on Calliope.

"Why did you stop me?!" she demanded with the full force of her haughty disapproval. She fixed the other woman with a glare that would have had either of her boys stumbling over themselves to apologize and make amends. "Why do you all just stand around and let that happen? Surely this isn't the first time that man has behaved like this in front of all of you."

Calliope glanced at her and shook her head with a defeated, annoyed sigh. She pulled Hermione closer and forced her to wait until the others were out of sight in the alley before casting a surprisingly strong 'Clamitatio' spell, creating a din of noise to potential eavesdroppers that made their conversation indiscernible.

"Because, if you or anyone else makes any sort of scene, Epona will get drug back home and she won't get to spend time with us," Calliope explained. "That's just another few hours where she's under his heel with no hope of a breath of escape."

"But-" Hermione started to argue, but Calliope interrupted her before she could begin.

"And if you think by defending Epona to him you're somehow helping her, you're not," she continued, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing Hermione with a firm gaze of her own. "Every word you say? She _will_ pay for it later. You will go home, safe and sound, and she will go home to _that_."

Hermione paced in front of the redheaded witch, her upset growing as the other woman refused to acknowledge that something had to be done.

"She most certainly DOES NOT have to go home to that," Hermione insisted. "This isn't the middle ages, Calliope; women have rights, even within the confines of marriage. If that's what he does in public, I can't _begin_ to imagine what he's like behind closed doors. Why don't any of you help her get out, and furthermore, why are you trying to stop me from doing the same?!"

Calliope's eyes widened and she eyed Hermione with a mix of incredulity and anger.

"Are you mad!?" She practically hissed, latching into Hermione's arm and looking around as if afraid someone would hear her. "They're married, Hermione! This isn't some muggle handfasting we're discussing; this is true wizarding marriage, bound for life and _all_ that entails. She's supposed to just leave?! You say women have rights in their marriage, but you know as well as I that depends on the ritual used and what the man vows- IF he vows anything at all! Do you honestly think the vows and the ceremony the Avery family used can be wriggled out of, or that he promised anything of real use to her? He'd use the bond to make her life miserable until death seemed preferable if she tried to escape! And do you truly think any of us can do anything, affect any real change?"

She huffed and shook her head. "Avery is Inner Circle now, same as Livius and Bastien and Rad and the others," Calliope continued, counting each man on her fingers for emphasis. "There is only one man who could possibly have the power to make him stop, and you tell me if you think Lord Riddle has any intention of interfering in the private lives of his followers."

Hermione rubbed her temples and fought not to screech in indignation. "This isn't about respecting someone's privacy, this is wrong!" She said forcefully. "This is morally reprehensible, this is-"

She cut herself off with a snap at Calliope's raised eyebrow as she realized what she was saying and how utterly- out of place it sounded, considering the circumstances. The Death Eaters didn't care about morality; ethics and the depravity of a situation were not valid arguments to them. Suddenly her work the previous night on superior occluding seemed woefully inadequate, as she had only addressed the sinful things Tom himself might do and really, that left her with rather a lot of unresolved problems when it came to his lackeys. The wives may not be Death Eaters in their own right, but they were married to these men, and how was she to know who was just as bad as their husband and who was involved involuntarily?

Her eyes filled with angry tears and Calliope frowned, reaching a gentle hand out to rest on Hermione's shoulder where she squeezed.

"Oh, Hermione," Calliope scolded, not without sympathy. "This is one of the least upsetting things you're likely to see as Lord Riddle's wife. I don't know why you chose to join the Death Eaters or to marry the Leader, but you can't- You can't respond like this and expect the others not to eat you alive."

Hermione tried, she really did, to stem the flow of frustrated tears that slid down her cheeks but they kept falling and Calliope sighed gently before handing her a handkerchief embroidered with the Nott family crest from her satchel. It was such an annoyance to cry when angry but there was nothing for it so she simply tried to breathe through it, taking the moment to form a strategy to fix this situation with Epona Avery. Calliope may have given up and the others as well, but she was not Hermione Granger for nothing and she simply would not let this pass.

"You didn't choose, did you?" Calliope mused aloud as she studied Hermione, nodding her head in understanding and looking distinctly tired. Hermione didn't confirm nor deny her speculations, simply allowing the other woman to draw her own conclusions on why she would be marrying Tom. "I suppose I just thought- Well, since Lord Riddle would never be subject to an arranged marriage, of course, that you... Well. It doesn't matter."

She looped an arm over Hermione's shoulder and held her tightly. "Look," Calliope said kindly, "Let's get you some pretty, pretty robes for your bonding ceremony and then we'll head back to Jocelend's and sort all of this out, alright? The women here, with us today? We take care of each other and you're about to be one of us. Your ours now. We can't fix everyone, as much as we wish we could, but we protect our own as much as can and we're going to sort out what your feeling and deal with it. Epona's situation is a lot more complicated, but a lot of us have done what you're doing. You think all of us were thrilled about our marriages to begin with?"

Hermione gave a small watery chuckle at that thought and pulled away from Calliope, drying her eyes and smoothing down her skirt. "No, of course not," she agreed. Maybe these women could be true friends and allies; maybe they could simply be useful. Either way, she had no intention of dismissing advice from anyone within her new social sphere without weighing it thoroughly for import.

"Definitely not," Calliope said with a wry grin. "But this is the way things are, and we'll help you make the best of it."

"Right," Hermione said with a firm nod. There was no sense in telling Calliope that she had no intention of accepting the status quo like a good girl. These women obviously had made their decisions already and maybe they truly didn't have choices, but she did and she intended to use them. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Calliope replied with a smile. "Let's go catch up with the girls."

* * *

When Tom arrived home for a quick lunch, he was surprised into stillness at the bottom of the stairs leading up to his flat. Hermione was settled in front of his door with her head buried in a book, feet tucked under her and looking every bit as if she was sitting on a plush armchair and not the dirty floor.

After a moment's pause, he climbed the stairs towards her and smiled charmingly when she looked up at him, noting the fiery look in her eyes and the tightness of her jaw without comment.

"Little Gaza," he greeted her smoothly, extending a hand to help her to her feet. "This is truly a surprise. I was under the impression you were shopping and taking tea with the most elite of pureblood wives this afternoon."

Hermione allowed him to help her stand before tucking her book into a bag that was clearly too small to hold it (and yet still held it just fine, clever girl) and clutching at the emerald around her neck nervously.

Tom smiled at the unconscious gesture. He wondered if she considered the necklace an adornment or a noose.

"No matter," he continued, brushing the curl from her forehead that it seemed was always escaping from whatever style she tortured her hair into. "Would you like to join me for tea instead?"

"Yes. Thank you, Tom," Hermione murmured before stepping aside to allow him to move the wards. Once again, he chose to let them drape over her skin instead of removing them entirely and he noticed with a pleased, private smirk that this time she did not comment on the caress of dark magic.

Instead of waiting for him to make the tea, he watched Hermione set the kettle to boil before moving to pull cups down from the same cabinet she had watched him use just two days ago. Tom settled himself at the table with a small amount of annoyance that she so liberally allowed herself access to his space, but more amusement than anything else. Did she even realize how she already began to fold herself into the spaces around him, how easily and smoothly she fit into his side?

His Gaza may be upset by it, but he doubted she would allow herself the luxury of ignoring how well they meshed together with one another.

Neither of them spoke until the tea was ready and Hermione was pouring for him, preparing his cup precisely how he had done it in front of her. Most people failed to do much of anything with the same precision Tom himself did but as he took a suspicious sip of the liquid placed in front of him, fully prepared to dispose of it and start all over, he noted Hermione appeared to be the exception. If he did not know better, he would have sworn he himself prepared it.

He savored the beverage as he watched her nervously nibble of her lip, letting the silence stretch to uncomfortable proportions before she finally gave in by banging her own cup down so violently that some of the liquid sloshed onto the table.

"I have a request, as a wedding present," Hermione said firmly, though her steely demeanor was somewhat undermined when she looked around and, failing to locate a tea towel, simply wiped the spill up with her sleeve.

Tom raised a single eyebrow as he studied the way she fidgeted in her chair. She certainly did not strike him as one to be overly invested in material trappings, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

"And what is it precisely that you desire?" He asked.

"Epona Avery," she answered while her chin lifted ever so slightly in a defiant gesture.

Tom's other eyebrow rose to the same height as his first as he considered such a ridiculous and rather strange request.

"I have to wonder what on earth little Epona could have done in the space a few morning hours to offend you so deeply that you'd wish for her death."

"What?!" Hermione gasped breathlessly, reeling back from the table slightly and shaking her head rapidly back and forth. "Merlin, of course I don't want her dead! That's not at all what I- I want her _safe_."

Tom bit back a frown. While that did make more sense, it was also an even more ridiculous idea than disposing of the little mouse of a woman.

"I assume this has to do with Corvus and his more distasteful proclivities?" Tom inquired politely, taking another sip of his tea.

Hermione huffed, indignation coloring her cheeks as she practically trembled with emotion.

"His 'distasteful proclivities'?!" she hissed. "I did, as you suggested earlier, go to get my robes and then have tea at Jocelend's this morning. Once we arrived in a private residence, I got an eyeful of just what sort of 'proclivities' that disgusting man has. A simple finite on Epona's glamours so that she could be healed and tended revealed much more than I have any interest in ever being privy to again."

"Corvus Avery is a sadist," Tom explained patiently, as if to a child. "When there is no one in interrogation for him to play with, Epona serves as entertainment. Did we not discuss how I allow my followers their hobbies in order to secure their loyalty? What concern is it of mine how he chooses to treat one magically weak woman?"

Hermione opened her mouth, likely to yell at him in an overly emotional and impulsive fit, but he continued on before she could make such a mistake and ruin a perfectly pleasant tea time by doing something that would require him to punish her.

"So what, exactly, shall I do and what is my incentive to do so? I could provide him with more playthings if that was your desire. He largely ignores Epona when there are less broken toys in his dungeon," Tom shrugged and took a sip of his tea. "I won't kill him, if that's your request. He's far too valuable."

"You are the only one who could evenly possibly leash him, Tom," Hermione exclaimed with pleading eyes, reaching across the table and taking his hand in her own. The warmth of her skin with her magic crackling across it, spurred forth by her wildly thrashing emotions, sent instant arousal up and down his spine. Tom's eyes fell to half-mast as he quickly reversed their positions, grabbing her wrist firmly and pressing it to the table.

"Yes, I could leash him," he replied, his voice husky as he ran his thumb over her jumping pulse. "But why would I?"

"Because I asked," she told him firmly.

He leaned forward across the table, keeping her hand trapped as he smiled coldly at her.

"No."

His eyes closed briefly and he bit back a groan as her magic surged with her rage at his dismissal. _This_ was what she had been fighting so hard to hide from him and now she was losing control in a stunning moment of thoughtless anger. Fuck, she was powerful. He knew, of course; he could sense it and his wards could catalog it but feeling it thrumming beneath his fingertips was so much more than that.

Tom had women; he had them a hundred different ways and a hundred different times whenever the mood struck him but his Gaza was so much more than any of them had ever been. He opened his eyes to see hers nearly black from barely restrained wrath and all he wanted to do was bend her over the table and pound into her until he saw just how much more power would be forced out of her when he made her cum.

If anger was like this, orgasm might just level a building.

Her face was white in the throes of temper and her fist had clenched but he felt it relax under his grip. Though she still trembled, she outwardly cooled and by all appearances became much calmer.

She couldn't fool him, though. Her magic was still trying to burn the air around them.

"What can I bring to this conversation to make it worth your time to help Epona?" Hermione finally asked evenly.

Tom smiled.


	8. Wrathful Compromise

**AN: Hello Readers! Thank you for your many reviews and all of your feedback, I can't tell you how much it means to me. I wanted to take a minute to address a few private messages I have gotten with this story and remind everyone of the warning at the very beginning, before even the prologue.**

 **This is a story of broken people. Hermione is strong, she's SO strong, but she is also inherently destroyed by her experiences. Seriously, remember that she has been hunted, tortured, survived a war, suffered severe isolation from all other human beings and to top it off, has little to no romantic experience at all. And we are pitting her with/against a charming, cruel, and cold man with Antisocial Personality Disorder. To say she is weak when she falls victim to some of his tactics is failing to really think through the psychological aspects of what is happening in the story and does not acknowledge her inexperience.**

 **Just something to remember as we consider how our little Gryffindor falls prey to some of Tom's exceptional manipulation skills. :)**

Reluctantly, Tom released the hold he had on Hermione's wrist and brought his cup to his lips, giving the impression he was mulling over her offer. And he was, certainly, but it was more that he wondered just how far he could push her. A large part of him was curious to determine how important this morality the girl clung to really was to the totality of her person.

Her pragmaticism was evident in her plans and her strategies and yet, she was undeniably hindered by some obscure view of ethics. It was frankly painful to watch her attempt to reconcile the two. Just how much would his crown jewel give PERSONALLY to help a woman she was barely acquainted with simply because it was 'right?'

"I think an additional two entreaties for me only added to our bonding ceremony would suffice," Tom offered smoothly as he sat back in his chair and waited for the inevitable blow-up.

He expected her to rage at him, to cite 'fairness', so he was unprepared for the way her eyes glittered as she leaned forward in her chair in mimicry of his demeanor moments earlier as she echoed his simple answer.

"No."

Tom kept his jaw carefully tightened to conceal the wave of fury that ripped through him at her denial. People simply did not tell the Dark Lord 'no.' They equivocated, they begged, they offered alternatives; they DID NOT blatantly rebuff him.

"Perhaps Epona will need to die after all," he commented impassively.

Hermione picked up her own tea and took a drink. "I think not, Tom," she said calmly. "I think that if you will not afford me a gift out of the kindness of your cold, dark heart, I have something else to offer you that you will find difficult to resist."

Tom tilted his head and studied her with anger darkened eyes. "I find myself disinclined to bargain at the moment, Ms. Mortenson," he informed her coldly. "While your lack of proper respect and understanding of decorum has remained largely evident from the start, I find my feelings of amusement at your many little rebellions at a low."

He leaned forward in his seat, pinning her with his glare like a butterfly with a straight pin. "In fact, I suggest you depart for the time being, before I do something that would cast a cloud on our mutually beneficial binding ceremony that takes place so very soon."

Hermione's lips twitched upwards into a small smile, almost as if the smug chit thought she could see right through him as she took another sip of her tea and tapped a single, considering finger to her chin.

"No."

Tom's temper broke with a roar of blood in his ears and the shattering of the teacup in her hand as his magic flowed violently outward.

Before he had fully formed a thought, he had his future bond mate across the room and pressed against a wall, similar to the first time they had ever spoken exempting that this time his hand was around her delicate throat. He wasn't impeding her airflow, no, but her arms were once again secured above her head with a sticking charm he did not remember uttering and he was dominating her body, holding her where he wanted her as he breathed heavily with his chin pressed to his chest and fought for control of the rage.

He couldn't kill her. He _could not_ kill her. She was too valuable, too clever, too much of many things and no matter how the idea appealed at the moment, he could not tighten his fingers until she gasped and turned blue and her eyes pled for mercy he would not show her.

Tom brought his bowed head up to meet her eyes and felt his own narrow when he saw her gazing at him not with the frightened expression he expected, but rather with an amused countenance that had his fingers flexing around the slim column beneath his palm.

"You really need to work on that anger problem, Tom," Hermione whispered hoarsely and he released her immediately because he knew if he did not, he truly would choke the life out of her.

Tom said nothing but closed his eyes tightly, breathing deeply through his nose until he felt the seething urge to destroy all the little pieces that made up this woman subside ever so slightly.

"Apologies, Gaza," he responded with calmness he did not feel. "It seems I have been lax in your education on how these little chats of ours are set to go. Allow me to enlighten you."

He walked towards her and braced his hands on either side of her head as he brought his face close to hers and spoke very softly in the same tone that made his hardened group of cold-blooded killers shiver.

"We speak to one another about whatever subject currently needs exploring," he told her with deceiving gentleness, "and I listen to your concerns and your requests as you express them with respect. It is understood that you will be given more leniency than all others but while I may allow you to exist close to me, as almost my equal, you _are not_ my equal."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but Tom stopped her by whispering a quick 'Silencio' before he continued, ignoring the way her eyes darkened even further and her magic sparked around him.

"Mocking my earlier decision to decline your request does not endear you to me nor does it fall under the heading of respectful discourse," Tom said, taking a step back and moving across the kitchen towards his sitting room. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out two items as his eyes glinted menacingly at the silently seething girl secured to his wall where he could just see her around the corner.

"Crucios may be useless on you," he acceded with a smug grin as his hand caressed the black boxes that held his prizes. "But as I told you before, there is more than one way to torture a person and pain is only a very small avenue to explore."

With a sigh of contentment as the playing board leveled back in his favor, Tom set the two objects on the kitchen table and flipped open the lid of the first, running his fingers centimeters from the small figure contained within. It was a raven, approximately the size of his palm and practically pulsing with sinister magic.

"This is the 'Golodaniye'," Tom said fondly, levitating it until it was inches from her face so that his Gaza could see the piercing claws and the knife sharp beak. "It's a modified Russian cursed object, courtesy of Antonin. When a person touches the figure, the raven claws its way up onto one's shoulder and embeds its talons in the skin. Its name, in case you are not familiar with the language, translates to 'Hunger.' It's very similar to a dementor, only it feeds on pain and sadness by pulling all of your fears and traumas to the front of your consciousness and consuming the associated feelings with relish. Instead of eating your happiness, it eats your anguish."

He brought the raven back towards him and settled it into the velvet-lined box once more, snapping the container that held his first item closed as he moved to the next.

"This one," Tom continued lightly as he removed the silver chain with a small vial hanging at the end, "induces the panic of an acute stress response. While that may sound relatively benign, remember that medically speaking hyperarousal caused by a perceived threat or attack can only last approximately ten minutes. That means naturally occurring panic attacks have a definite end. This lovely amulet, however, allows the wearer the unbearable gift of endless hours of the feeling. While a muggle's body would eventually give out under the stress, a witch or wizard's magical core allows him or her to absorb the adrenalin and continue feeling the effects for an indeterminate amount of agonizing time."

He set the amulet down on the little table in his breakfast nook before he brought his eyes back to Hermione and smiled coldly. "So, Little Gaza," he asked. "Which punishment do you feel will help you learn to respect your future husband?"

He knew she couldn't answer, not with the Silencio in place, so he was surprised into a moment's hesitation when Hermione raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak.

"I don't know, Tom," she answered as she brought her arms down to her sides and took a step forward, piercing him with a stare that would have had a lesser wizard shaking at the implications. "Which might you need to understand that I am not yours to punish?"

Tom's brain quickly fired as he raised a silent, wandless 'Protego' half a second before her equally silent, wandless curse slammed into his shield. He swallowed heavily, momentary wrath at her escape completely overshadowed by the sheer lust and possessiveness rushing through his veins in equal measure. The ability to remove a wizard's curse on one's own person increased in difficulty based on the skill of the wizard, and Tom was incredibly skilled. For Hermione to have wandlessly and wordlessly removed all her confinements, even considering how her abilities had been heightened with rage, she herself had to be at least close to his match.

He had known she was powerful, but he was suddenly in a moment of unfortunate understanding coming to the conclusion that he had underestimated her. She was not his equal, she truly wasn't. But if she would let go of her notions of right and wrong, if she could rise above such plebian concerns as empathy and justice, if she would listen to his instructions and learn and grow; with the amount of raw power she possessed, she could be.

For now, though, he had a spitting angry witch in his kitchen to contend with.

"Ah, but Hermione," he stated calmly, watching the way her little fists clenched and unclenched as she planted her feet and breathed erratically. "You know you _are_ mine."

A 'Confrigo' layered between two 'Expulsos' shattered his shield but her quickly fired cutting hex met his already re-done shielding and she let out a shriek of indignation.

"I belong to no one!" She yelled and he watched her carefully, noting her shift in demeanor.

He did not respond as minutes passed. The composure and taunting that she had replied to his original dismissal with had vanished and its place was a woman crazed and cruel, almost like a wild animal as she sent curse after curse against his easily renewed shield. Part of him noted that he should curse her back, that this kind of behavior could not be seen to be tolerated, but he was also aware that she did not appear to be responding logically at the moment and times of emotional upheaval were not times to cement any lessons aside from teaching fear.

His earlier attempts to teach her fear were what got Tom into this situation in the first place so without his fury to cloud his judgment, he allowed himself pause to determine what this was and who this wounded creature was in front of him.

It took her an hour to wear herself out and in a strange moment of indulgence, Tom let her have the time. If anyone, ANYONE aside from her had attempted to curse him, they would not survive the experience, nor would they die painlessly. Despite her usefulness, he wasn't entirely sure why she was different but the fact that she was different was a rather uncomfortable reality that he was not interested in exploring too deeply.

Hermione settled herself at his table panting, eyes finally back to calmness as she vanished the tea from Tom's cup, summoned another from the cabinet and poured them both fresh drinks. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement at the complete change in her emotional state but he said nothing, thanking her instead and settling himself across from her as if the last hour and a half of threats and violence from both sides had not happened.

They sat in silence as they drank before Hermione set her tea on the table and looked at Tom once more.

"In exchange for Epona's safety, I am willing to provide you with the location of Salazar Slytherin's Locket and Helga Hufflepuff's cup."

In a most un-lordly moment, Tom almost dropped his tea.

"You know where these heirlooms are?" He breathed as he set his cup on the table, clenching his hands into fists in his lap to hide the overwhelming excitement he felt at the prospect of securing two founder's artifacts for his collection.

While he had searched, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem still eluded him somewhere in the wilds of Albania. He was going to continue his search eventually, but in the meantime, securing two additional founder's objects would be quite the boon.

"I do," Hermione said with a tired smile that somehow managed to tell him he was not fooling her with his attempts at a steely façade. "And I will tell you where they are. _If_ you keep Epona safe from Corvus Avery."

Tom considered her offer with barely leashed hunger, forcing his brain to strategize even as eagerness threatened to overwhelm him. "I could just wait until we are married," he pointed out with forced calm. "You will be compelled to be honest with me then."

"True," Hermione conceded with a small grimace at that looming reality. "However, you are well aware that the entreaty will only be able to force me to speak truthfully, not to compel me to speak. I can choose to remain silent."

Tom nodded, slightly disappointed but not at all surprised that she picked on that nuance.

"I agree to your terms," Tom said easily, watching as Hermione gave him a small smile before conjuring a scrap of parchment and a quill. She wrote something on the paper and then folded it, murmuring an incantation he did not catch before she handed it to him.

The writing was blurry and unreadable and he met her eyes with an amused expression as she took another sip of her tea. "It'll clear up just as soon as you fulfill your half of the bargain," Hermione stated with a challenging raise of her eyebrow.

He snorted a laugh before he could stop himself and raised his wand.

"Morsmordre ad Regem," he intoned with a casual flick, watching as a small, personal dark mark appeared smokily in the air in front of him. He pressed the tip of his wand to it. "Voco Corvus Avery."

The dark mark twisted in on itself and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Hermione looked distinctly ill at the display but before she could say anything, Tom felt the telltale feel of Corvus outside his wards. He lifted them enough for the man to pass through and enter his sitting room and as he passed into the kitchen, he spared a glance for Hermione before standing before Tom and waiting.

Summonings were always a bit harrowing for his followers, he knew, because it was not established beforehand what level of formality was required. They had to wait and take their cues from him. Since Tom was depriving a valued member of his inner circle of something, he decided to allow the formalities to pass and indicated for Corvus to be seated.

Hermione said nothing and, he noted, did not offer the man a cup, causing Tom to bite back a smile.

"Lord Riddle," Corvus said, interrupting his musings, "how can I serve you?"

Tom sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes to meet Hermione's guarded but challenging ones and he bit back a second, louder sigh before turning to his follower.

"Corvus," Tom stated coldly. "It is my desire that Epona no longer be utilized as a tool to vent your displeasure or boredom. As your wife, she will retain her standing and a place in your home, but you are to treat her as you do when there are other outlets in your dungeons at all times, even when there are not."

Corvus's eyes narrowed in anger and his nostrils flared, but he inclined his head slightly in acceptance.

He paused for a moment. "Is this a punishment for something I have done to displease you, my Lord?" he asked quietly.

"No," Tom answered shortly, effectively ending the question portion of the conversation. Corvus' eyes flickered to Hermione in understanding but though his jaw tightened, he did not comment on any possible involvement she might have.

Tom knew Corvus was not going to be fond of this edict. In fact, any limitations on personal freedoms for the members of his Inner Circle were to be avoided at all costs; personal pursuits and respect for them, no matter how depraved, were part of the benefit of being Inner Circle and it secured their loyalty. But this was too important and no matter how valuable Corvus was, Hermione and her information were more so. Corvus may hate these limitations but he would swallow them. He, after all, had very few other options and none of those were palatable.

"I understand, my Lord," Corvus finally said blandly as he stood and waited to be dismissed. When Tom waved his hand flippantly, the other man quickly left the room and the flat entirely.

Tom glanced down at the parchment still in his hand and smiled as a name swam into view.

 _Hepzibah Smith._

His Gaza stood from the table and swiftly moved around to stand between his spread knees. Her eyes flashed with emotions he could not name as she leaned down slightly and rested her hand on his cheek.

"Thank you, Tom," Hermione said, running her thumb along his cheekbone. He allowed the touch, curious as to her intentions and unwilling to admit that he thoroughly enjoyed the feel of her hands on his skin.

"A few items to address," she continued with a small smile lighting up her tired features. "First, I appreciate your help with Epona. I am very... _satisfied_ with the bargain we struck."

"Second, Hepzibah Smith is a character that you would have met in December regardless. Try to remember that next time you attempt to secure more from me than I willingly offered. If you had given me what I requested freely, perhaps I would have provided you with something freely as well."

Tom's eyes closed as he realized he'd been thwarted, again, by the little witch currently stroking his face ever so softly, the magic at her fingertips caressing him in ways that made his own magical core tingle. He was not sure if he was proud of her deception or infuriated by it.

"Lastly," Hermione whispered softly against the sensitive skin of his ear, silky lips almost kissing the lobe as she spoke, "I could have gone back further in time and murdered you in your crib in that orphanage, Tom. I decided against it but remember that I could have. While I appreciate you reminding me exactly who I am and what I'm capable of today, you may regret doing so. Threaten me, even idly, with torture again and I just may reconsider the decision to come back to 1955 and find the will to go back much earlier instead."

His Gaza pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and slipped past him, out the still open wards and into the evening.

No one threatened Tom Riddle. _No one._

Tom swallowed heavily as he ran a hand up and down his face and tried to will the inflamed feelings of need from his body.

No one threatened Tom Riddle but Hermione Mortenson just did and fuck, but he liked it.


	9. Aeternum Adstringo

**AN: To see Hermione's bonding gown and a few other details, check out the Pinterest page!**

 **www. pinterest avajunewrites /the-pendulum-of-the-mind**

Tom watched as Thaddeus Mulciber and Radolphous Lestrange hauled large chunks of natural lodestone, onyx, and salt into the naturally occurring copse of trees he had selected to use for the binding rite. The jagged lodestone tore at the men's robes but neither complained, knowing better than to seek out Tom for understanding and commiseration. In order for the protective circle to operate at maximum efficiency, the stones had to be moved the last 100 or so yards manually and Tom was, after all, already in his binding robes.

Also, he was the Dark Lord. No longer being required to participate in manual labor was a perk.

Radolphous placed the final onyx stone down with a heavy thump, thereby completing the preparation needed before Tom enchanted it. A swish of his wand saw golden threads of light crawling along the rocks before flaring briefly and fading away into the hard, unyielding surface they provided.

Tom turned to his followers and offered a nod of acknowledgment. "The circle is ready," he said cooly. "Your work was... sufficient. You may go."

Thaddeus bowed slightly and murmured a hardly audible 'My Lord' before disappearing with a pop of apparition.

Radolphous, however, stepped to his side and smiled wryly. "I truly never anticipated you would want to be bound to anyone, Tom" he said quietly. "This is almost surreal."

Tom shrugged, adjusting the cufflinks on the button up below his black formal dress robes.

"Were we discussing the average witch, I would agree entirely. My Gaza, however, is far from average."

Radolphous's eyebrows went up at the nickname, but he wisely chose not to comment on it. "I hope you will be as content as Angua and I," he said with a smile instead. "I know you consider yourself above such things, but some of us remember the boy before the man. Your friends truly wish for your happiness."

Friends remained a strange concept to Tom and one that the original "Knights of Walpurgis" seemed determined to force upon him. He had never coveted friends. Associates and allies, some perhaps more favored than others, had been found amongst his classmates at Hogwarts but friendship implied a depth of affection he simply did not experience for other people. Admittedly, Livius, Radolphous, and Antonin were his favorite associates and he regarded them with something approaching respect, but friendship... the thought still made him slightly ill.

These men were not unintelligent, however, and they were observant enough to know that their attachment was not returned. It was not his job to correct them if they chose to offer him more loyalty and devotion under the auspicious of 'friendship,' so he allowed them their delusions.

"Your well wishes are duly noted, Rad," Tom answered coolly. "Now, I do believe my bride and Livius will be arriving momentarily and I assured Hermione only the three of us would be in attendance."

Radolphous smiled and shook his head almost imperceptibly but he bowed before disappearing without another word. Tom frowned at the man's presumptions but decided to let it go for now. After all, it was his wedding day; if ever there was time to be magnanimous, it would be today.

A few minutes later, Tom was greeted by the sight of Hermione appearing with her arm tucked into Livius's elbow. He might have been stunned into silence by the vision of her in her formal bonding gown if he were not immediately consumed by the task of stifling laughter at the obvious rebellions she had decided to flaunt at their bonding. The fact that Livius was pale and his eyes were extremely wary, having noted his Gaza's questionable choices, simply added to his amusement and he snorted despite his efforts.

Hermione carried a cloak that would serve as robes across her free arm but had obviously already removed it as the day was unseasonably warm for October. The bonding gown was layered black silk, complete with very gentle ruffles and a slight train. The bodice was topped with a sweetheart neckline that would have been strapless except for the lace clinging all the way up to the base of her neck and down to both wrists. The back, however, was open and dipped down all the way to where her hips began to curve.

Her hair was pulled into a loose bun that practically spilled out slightly tamed curls, with a few wild ringlets cascading down to frame her face. Everything was perfectly formal and appropriate and she looked quite stunning, the kind of woman any man would be salivating to marry.

There were, however, two key details that had Tom chuckling. It's not as if he did not expect her to deviate in some way from being the complacent, happy little bride, but he was still amused with her efforts.

Livius and Hermione came to stand in front of him and she graced him with a slightly forced smile.

"Hermione," Tom greeted her with a kiss to her knuckles. "You look lovely this evening. Interesting choice of coloring for our bonding, however. What is it they say about brides who wear black?"

Tom fixed his gaze on Livius who swallowed and cleared his throat.

"I believe it is, 'Married in black, you will wish yourself back,' my Lord," he answered quietly.

Hermione shrugged. "I see you're in black, Tom," she pointed out with barely concealed defiance. "What does that mean for me?"

He smiled coldly down at the fiery little witch in front of him. "What indeed, Little Gaza," he agreed. "The rhododendron accent to your hair is a lovely choice for your coloring, though... should I be concerned that you have chosen the strain colloquially known as 'black widow' instead of the more common version?"

"Of course not, Tom," she assured him with a challenging expression. "It simply brings out my eyes."

"I see," he answered with amused fondness as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear and gently rubbed his thumb along her cheek. "Of course, even the typical rhododendron is highly poisonous and is used as a symbol to encourage caution."

Hermione leaned into his hand ever so slightly with wide, innocent eyes and Tom smiled.

"Putting the art of subtle threats and symbolism aside for the evening," he continued, allowing his hand to fall to her waist so he could turn her towards the magic circle, "shall we begin?"

Hermione swallowed hard and reached a hand up to fiddle with her emerald, a nervous habit that delighted Tom to no end, before visibly steeling herself and nodding once. She took a firm step into the circle, shivering as the magic of the space washed over her. The ritual had begun.

Tom followed, purposefully suppressing his own physical response before guiding his Gaza with a hand to the small of her back towards the large slab of onyx balanced in the very center of the circle. He bit back a groan at the feeling of her nervous magic running up and down the warm, silky skin of her back. Consummation was not strictly necessary following a binding, but it was expected and the bond would demand it fairly soon. He sincerely hoped she would not fight against it, though he suspected she would.

Tom could be patient when he needed to be. He was simply extremely annoyed that in the meantime her magic was torturing him with arousal every single time he touched her. His own magic thrummed beneath his skin, fighting to get to her and touch what he coveted. It was an unpleasant sensation, to say the least, though certainly not unbearable.

Livius moved to the other side of the makeshift table, placing his hands and a very old, very decrepit tome between them, slightly left of center. Livius glanced at him and when Tom inclined his head, the other man spoke.

"A cry to the primordial magic," Livius said. "Two lovers come before you to invoke the ancient rite of Aeternum Adstringo. Who seeks Magic's favor and entreats its blessing?"

"I, Tom Marvelo Riddle, seek Magic's favor and blessing."

"I, Hermione Mortenson, seek Magic's favor and blessing," his Gaza echoed.

Tom shivered involuntarily as the air stirred in unnatural ways and the magic that was contained to the circle thickened to almost suffocating levels. A bright blue flame appeared at the center of the table, burning much hotter than any typical fire. He could feel the heat prickle along his skin even a foot away.

"Magic hears and Magic listens," Livius continued. "As the bonder, the duty falls to me to cast the first ashes."

He reached a hand into his ceremonial robes and removed a satchel, which he set to the right of the fire.

"Frankincense to sanctify the space, that all we do here today will be untainted and pure," Livius said, pulling the herb from the satchel and dropping it into the fire. "Rowan Bark, Mandrake, and Clove, three substances to bind that our lovers will be thrice bound. Lastly, Vervain and Yarrow for fidelity, that our lovers may never stray from what Magic today binds."

As the last herb was deposited in the fire, the flames changed to a deep royal purple and Livius nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow briefly.

"Magic hears and Magic listens. The rite of bondmate is invoked. Bring forth your entreaties that a bond may form and flourish."

Tom could not quite bite back his smile as the moment he had been waiting for arrived. The rite of bondmate was where he could ensure that his soon to be wife provided him with everything he wanted, _needed_ to secure from his little time traveler. It was his moment of triumph, the reality of possessing such a boon momentarily intoxicating. He was not ignorant, however. He was taking a chance with the decision to provide Hermione similar leverage. Tom was trusting his instincts, the ones that told him someone so morally driven would not use this opportunity in a way she found repugnant. If he was wrong, the consequences could be... unpleasant. His entreaties should protect him, but there were simply too many variables to guarantee success.

It was gamble and Tom Riddle did not very often gamble. This time, though, the potential reward was too great to resist.

Livius looked to him to begin and Tom fetched his own satchel from his robes, placing it beside the one Livius had brought.

"With heliotrope," he began, tossing the herb into the fire, "I entreat your devotion."

Admittedly, devotion was a vague sort of concept but it encompassed so many lovely things that he wanted from his little Gaza. Magic, the proper noun, never did work with absolutes regardless.

"With mullein," Hermione said after retrieving her own bag and setting it on the onyx, "I entreat your protection."

"With aster," Tom continued. "I entreat your truth."

A sense of satisfaction settled in his mind as he threw the aster into the fire. It was set now; his treasure could not lie to him. A strange feeling that he could not name welled up in him and he realized he had never had anyone he could actually trust to not deceive him before. The fact that he was now guaranteed honestly was disconcerting but pleasurable.

"With mugwort, I entreat your empathy," she said."

Tom's brow furrowed at the request. Surely she understood he was not capable of such an emotion? That seemed like a waste of an entreaty, but then again, that could only serve him. He pushed the thought aside in favor of his last, and frankly most insidious entreaty.

"With vallerian," he almost purred, reveling in the implications of what he was doing, "I entreat your need."

Hermione's eyes widened and she paled before closing her eyes and swallowing hard. This, too, was somewhat vague but based on his research into how the bond worked (research his enormously intelligent bondmate must have also done,) the bond would now ensure that she developed a _craving_ for him. Tom wasn't sure if it would be emotional, sexual, or simply proximity-based but whatever the case, she should now require him to live in a very real, very concrete way. The consequences of not having him, while unknown, would likely be disastrous.

Hermione's magic flared in her anger and Tom bit back a moan as it caressed him and everything around them both, trapped as it was in the circle. Livius's eyes slammed shut and he curled in on himself, obviously not having the same pleasurable reaction that Tom was to the surge of uncontrolled magic. When Hermione saw Livius slump, she quickly willed the magic back and took a deep breath to steady herself.

Her voice shook slightly as she pulled the final herb from her bag.

"With burdock," she said thickly, "I entreat your balance."

Again, Tom felt himself a little nonplussed by her entreaty despite a glint in her eye that said he was missing something important. He decided to file this away to examine closer later and turned his attention back to Livius. That was until he felt the frayed edges of his soul burn white-hot and he fell to his knees with an uncontainable groan of agony. He panted, face screwed up in confusion as his insides seemed to incinerate before as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

He gulped in deep, guttural breaths as Hermione looked down at him impassively and Livius seemed torn between helping him (and breaking the ritual) or staying where he was so as not to disrupt it. He stared at Tom, clearly searching for any indication of what to do, but Tom simply shook his head and held up a hand to stop the man from moving. Any deviation from the ritual could have potentially dire side effects, which meant he also could not ask Hermione what in the fuck she just did to him until after the ceremony.

Tom steeled his body for lingering pain and pulled himself to his feet, but all whispers of torment had disappeared. He felt strange but otherwise well. He glared at the witch, the kind of look that could make grown men urinate in fear, but she smiled at him with a knowing glint that made him want, once again, to destroy her.

Instead he clenched his jaw and nodded to Livius.

At some point during Tom's near-collapse, the fire had turned white and Livius nodded towards it. "Magic hears and Magic listens. Before the flames are extinguished, have the lovers any additional pledges to make?"

Hermione reached into her robes and removed the contract she and Tom had come up with days ago, detailing their commitments to one another and what they had agreed to provide. She handed it to Tom who took it and read through it once more, ensuring it had not been tampered with before he tossed it into the fire. The flames flared but remained the same white color.

"So concludes the rite of bondmates," Livius continued. "The breath of life and magic flows through the fledgling bond and it begins to coalesce. The flames extinguish and before the dawn, there is night."

The flames went out with a small puff of smoke and Livius immediately gathered the black ash into his hand. He pulled out a thin, glass vial and after mixing in some water with a quiet 'Aguamenti', the ash was added to the vial and mixed well with a shake of his hand.

Livius handed the mixture to Tom and he turned to his Gaza, raising his left hand and a challenging brow. Hermione's eyes closed briefly as the last step to completing their bond loomed heavy and unchangeable before her, but she lifted her left hand all the same and together they held the vial between their palms.

In unison, they intoned the words that would bind them together for eternity.

"You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone," they said together, the words weighty as a death knoll as they swirled around them.

At the last word, primal and untethered magic swirled up from the onyx slab and slammed their palms together, cutting the flesh and allowing their blood to mingle together with the ash.

What happened then was unexpected and Tom was, for once, completely unprepared.

Both Tom and Hermione's magic emerged around them in an almost physical aura, pushing into the space of the circle as the bond fought to solidify. Tom's magic manifested as a midnight blue and immediately, it attempted to envelope the foreign magic around it, striving to consume, to absorb, and to conquer. Hermione's magic, in contrast, appeared as a shimmery gray and refused to disperse and be absorbed. It flailed and strained, fighting for autonomy and equal standing

As the two magics swirled around one another, battling and prodding relentlessly, Livius threw himself to the ground and covered his head, waiting for the moment when the oppressive suffocation of the air no longer threatened to drown him. Outside the circle, chaos reigned as the ground around the circle split and shook, causing deep wounds and scars to appear in the previously pristine copse. The wind screeched, though the air flow in the circle remained unaffected, and tree roots surrounding the magical barrier rose from the ground.

How long the magics fought was indeterminable but with a tremor that threatened to bring Tom embarrassingly to his knees, their two magics finally ceased fighting and silence ensued completely. Tom watched in a rare moment of speechlessness as their magic bled into one another right before their eyes, until the grey lightened the blue and shimmers ran through it like the night before the sunrise.

He looked to who was now his wife and saw his own shock and awe mirrored on her face. Magic was beautiful and it was terrifying.

Swallowing hard, Tom fought to regain his composure, pulling their hands apart gingerly as he cast his own 'Augamenti' to clean their palms. He started with his Gaza's but he stalled when he saw that as the ash washed off, a starburst was burned into the skin of her palm in blackened scar tissue. It resembled a tattoo more than a branding and with haste, Tom washed his own palm to discover a matching symbol.

Both he and Hermione jumped when Livius flipped over suddenly and let out a moan of pain as his back bowed off the ground. His eyes rolled back into his head and Hermione moved to help, but Tom wrapped an arm around her waist and held her back to his chest, unsure what was happening or why. Nothing about this was supposed to happen and for the first time since early childhood, Tom was unsure how to process the situation.

Livius's body relaxed and he let out a deep chuckle before rising to his feet. He ran his hands through his hair but when he looked at the couple before him, his eyes were an unnatural, bright lavender that seemed to glow. Hermione stiffened against him and Tom took a small step back, bringing them both to the edge of the magical circle.

"Now, now," Livius admonished lightly with a voice that was not his own. "I'm not here to cause you any harm. I'm just curious, you could say. That was quite the show you just caused in the Ethers, you know."

Tom kept his face carefully impassive, mind whirling as he tried to determine what sort of entity they were dealing with. Hermione, however, did not appear to share his caution.

"What are you?" she demanded.

Not-Livius chuckled. "You mortals, always so concerned with names and labels."

He sighed. "I am the one with no faces and the one with many. I am nothing and everything. I am immortal, timeless, and ageless. You, Fate Breaker, could likely call me a god."

Hermione's hand grabbed his own and tightened but her voice was carefully impassive. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Not-Livius tilted his head. "Is it? That's an interesting perspective. Although, I suppose you are entitled to it. Of course, I am not the one who is displeased with you both. The Sisters, on the other hand..."

"Sisters?" Tom prompted, voice carefully bland.

"Yes, Impetus. The Sisters. The Fates, The Norns, they too have many names," he told them. "They are the Weavers of Fate and you two simply refuse to be woven. Here we have the Fate Breaker, the woman who demolished the rules of time and tore the strands of space to crawl backwards. Not unheard of, but an uncommon occurrence."

He pointed to Tom. "Then there is you, The Impetus. You, who are a catalyst for change and chaos regardless of time and space, regardless of which timeline you exist within. You are not a favorite of the sisters even before today."

"What have we done today that displeases them?" Hermione asked in a polite if now somewhat shaky voice.

Not-Livius snorted indelicately. "This is cosmic unity. This is fate defied for your two souls were never meant to be bound," Not-Livius said. "'Magic hears and Magic listens.' Did you not see how strongly your magic fought against the union, how difficult a merger was? You two were never made to join and you already tear enough strands of fate enough without enmeshing.

He shook his head. "Magic though, Magic does not listen to the gods or the sisters or mortals. It is a force of nature. Magic changed and grew instead of breaking and in doing so, you broke the destiny made for you both. Maybe if you were typical beings, that would be inconsequential. But a Fate Breaker and an Impetus?" Not-Livius let out a whistle. "You didn't unravel a small piece of the Sisters' weaving; you burned the whole tapestry."

Hermione's breath was coming fast and short and Tom reached a hand up to gently rub her neck, willing her to stay grounded in this moment and calm her erratic breathing. They both needed to stay calm and alert, and he was relieved when she relaxed slightly under his touch.

"What does this require of us, then?" Tom inquired smoothly. He did not know what this god wanted, but he must want something if he was here and Tom had every intention of surviving this encounter intact.

Not-Livius laughed once more. "I need nothing from you, children," he said dismissively. "You broke the plan; it happens once every thousand years or so. I've always found it interesting when fate unravels and must be rewoven. I simply came to see."

He held out his hand and pulled Hermione's outward, running a finger over the starburst on her palm as she shivered against Tom's chest. "Call this mark a blessing. Or a curse. Either way, today marks destiny and destiny marks you."

He closed her hand into a fist and released her before stepping backwards. It was only then that Tom realized the god had stepped through the onyx slab as if it was not a solid object.

"It's both small and large, the changes you'll make. You became sizeable catalysts when you decimated time _and_ forced two souls to bind that were never meant to be bound. Time is so big and fate so broad and yet, this moment is like a teeny tiny shatter in a glass bridge. Every step you take from here on out is going to cause splinters in the most fascinating of ways, most of which neither of you will be able to even begin to comprehend."

Not-Livius shrugged. "But it should be entertaining for me."

He took a step back, breaking the magic circle as he moved out of its confines before he turned once more to where Tom and Hermione still stood frozen.

"Congratulations on your bonding, by the way. Let's see what you do with it."

With a wink, Livius's body sagged like marionette with vanished strings and collapsed to the ground.


	10. Immutability

**AN: Sorry this a few days late, everyone! I have been enormously ill. Again, thank you for all of your reviews and kudos and please accept this playlist of what I listened to while writing as a small consolation for the lateness of the chapter.**

 **Chapter 1: Roots by In This Moment**

 **Chapter 2: Emperor's New Clothes by Panic! At the Disco**

 **Chapter 3: King of the World by Porcelain and the Tramps**

 **Chapter 4: Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons**

 **Chapter 5: Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones**

 **Chapter 6: Crossfire by Stephen**

 **Chapter 7: Killa by tUnE-yArDs**

 **Chapter 8: A Little Wicked by Valerie Broussard**

 **Chapter 9: He Loves You by The Pretty Reckless**

 **Chapter 10: Falling by HAIM**

Hermione's breath stuttered as she watched Livius crumble to the ground. She did not enjoy seeing anyone in a state of distress and while it was true he was a Death Eater, at the moment he was also the most seemingly stable Death Eater and she was not particularly keen to lose a possible ally in a sea of serpents. She felt the flood of thoughts that always preluded a flashback, times she watched other bodies fall lifeless before her, and she struggled valiantly to push those images to the back of her consciousness as she made a move towards him. Tom's arm still held her securely but she shrugged him off, rushing across the remnants of the protection circle to fall to her knees beside the Nott patriarch's form.

She registered Tom approaching behind her but paid him no mind as she felt her heart rate slowing and her brain focusing in the way it always seemed to do by the end of the war in times of true crisis. Small anxieties still sent her into a tizzy, but the big things, the truly scary things, no longer made her lose her composure. Instead of panic, Hermione felt numb.

Pulling her wand from her hair, she ran a quick series of basic diagnostic spells to establish a baseline before looking over the form of the man in front of her to verify there was no unexpected external damage. She nodded at the results as she reached forward to peel back one of Livius's eyelids, noting his iris was back to being a stormy blue and retained no remnants of the lilac color it had moments ago. She glanced up to see Tom watching her with an inscrutable expression and she took a deep breath as she felt her emotions kick back on, danger averted for the time being.

"He appears to be back to himself," Hermione informed Tom with a shaky smile, "and there is no permanent damage that I can see."

She stood, wiping her hands on her slightly bedraggled bonding gown. "His magical core is depleted but should replenish over time. All we need to do is wake him up and with a little rest, he should be good as new."

Tom's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, dodging one of the fissures that had recently appeared in the earth. "Where exactly did you learn the healing skills?" he asked. "You made no mention of mediwitch training or similar."

Hermione's knees shook ever so slightly as she was reminded where she was, who she had just bound her soul to, and who she was before all this. "Fighting a war with Lord Voldemort," she whispered, closing her eyes.

She cleared her throat roughly as she pushed thoughts of previous lives away but the day appeared to have caught up with her because she felt tears pricking her eyes and oh- She was just so bloody tired. From the binding ceremony to the fight between their magic and then, _then_ having a _god_ come down to taunt them about the whole thing, it was just too much, it was just _too bloody much_ and-

"Stop."

Tom's demanding tone broke Hermione out of her reverie and she opened her eyes to see him eyeing her with a mix of confusion and anger. She realized that she had been standing there with her eyes closed for some time and she flushed, knowing how she must appear to him. She had been striving not to show the man a speck of weakness after her loss of control yesterday and a mental breakdown was certainly not on her agenda. She purposefully began seeking out her Occlumency shields and pushing her distress behind them, but her new husband interrupted her focus with a growl.

"What the fuck is this?" Tom murmured, rubbing at his chest as his eyes fixed on some unseen point in the mid-distance. She watched as he started to pace.

Hermione's face scrunched up in confusion for a moment as she tried to understand what, precisely, his issue was before she realized exactly what was happening and she felt a hysterical laugh bubble up out of her. Tom's eyes snapped to hers and he gave her an incredulous glare that simply made her laugh harder.

"Pray tell, little Gaza," He grit out at her, slowly allowing his hand to cease rubbing at the space between his lungs. "What is so amusing?"

"Empathy, Tom," Hermione gasped out, the whole situation ludicrous under the circumstances of just how much had occurred in the last few hours. "You saw me becoming upset because I'm a bit overwhelmed with everything that has happened today and you did not like it. You wanted the upset to stop. That's something like empathy."

Tom stared at her, jaw clenched tight as she watched his brilliant mind run through the implications. "That's ridiculous," he finally settled on, though he looked unsure that his conclusions were correct. "I don't feel empathy. It's not a part of my being; the bond could not simply manufacture it."

Hermione sat down, not caring a whit that her bonding gown was likely getting even more torn up as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. "You may not have been born with it, but regardless of how you try to deny it, you can certainly develop it with the help of the bond. I suspect it will only manifest in times of more extreme emotional peaks and not on the smaller things since it isn't organically based. Although, I wonder..." She paused, looking over at the still unconscious Livius. "Do you feel anything about the pain he suffered or any fear that he may not be quite as stable as I believe he will be when he wakes?"

Tom glanced down at his second in command and shrugged. "Not particularly," he answered slowly. "Livius is extremely useful, but not irreplaceable."

"Well then," Hermione nodded. "It's likely the entreaty will only work for you to feel empathy towards your bond mate, me, rather than towards the world at large. I had hoped it would be more universal but... Well, you can't have everything."

He stared down at her and fury lit up his eyes as he ran a hand through his hair.

"You tried to shackle me?!" He demanded, flicking his wrist so that his wand slid from the holster at his forearm to his hand. "You attempted to undercut the fucking Dark Lord with such a proletarian emotion as 'empathy'?!"

His pupils were so dark with anger that they were almost entirely black but Hermione simply raised an eyebrow at the explicit threat, not making any move to rise from her spot on the ground. "Go ahead, Tom. Try to curse me," she suggest calmly. "I think you'll find the protection entreaty will make that quite impossible."

Tom's eyes slid shut and she watched his whole body shake with fury as he considered the ramifications of what he had done, of the bond he had handed her. She could almost taste his rage and impotence on the air and whereas yesterday it would have thrilled her, today she found herself unable to bear it. His vexation was distinctly unpleasant to her, grating and uncomfortable.

Hermione rose to her feet and crossed to where he was, slipping her arms around his waist in a show of reassurance and nuzzling her head under his chin. Tom's eyes flew open as he looked down on her in consternation before his face twisted in a cruel smirk and he secured her body against his own within a cage of his arms.

"Seems I'm not the only one who's being thoroughly fucked by the entreaties, hmmm, Gaza?" His hands caressed the bare skin of her spine and he dipped his mouth to her ear. "Devotion ensures that you'll come crawling to 'comfort' me whenever I so much as frown."

Her eyes widened as she realized what she had done without even being conscious of her actions and she scowled up at him, moving to pull away. Tom held on tightly and refused to release her.

"Now tell me, Hermione," he continued, reaching up to tuck a curl back into her complicated up-do while his other arm kept her unyieldingly pressed to him. "What, precisely, did your other entreaty do to me?"

Unable to move, Hermione could do little but stare up at him defiantly as she let her own face fall into a smirk.

"You mean when you collapsed like a rag doll that'd been tossed aside for better toys when I made my entreaty for balance?" She asked innocently.

His arm tightened and his nostrils flared, but Tom refused to be baited, only offering her a tight nod.

Hermione sighed and slumped down in his arms, deflating a little before she looked back up at him and began thoughtlessly tracing patterns on his biceps.

"When you make a Horcrux, as you know, you literally slice off a piece of your soul," she began. "Not much research has been done on Horcruxes but considering how you deteriorated in my original timeline and based on the insanity inherent in the manifestations of even your earlier Horcruxes, it was my theory that a part of what caused the madness that came from their creation was a continued bleed, for lack of a better way to put it. It was a concept I had toyed with before I even considered coming back in time, that the wounds left by the severing of pieces of your soul were not closed, acting like a festering and oozing infection."

"Over time," Hermione continued, still unconsciously petting the Dark Lord, "the creation of additional Horcruxes would exacerbate the issue but regardless, I had concerns regarding your mental state if the two injuries that already exist upon your soul were allowed to suppurate. Not much research, unfortunately, leads to absolutely no solutions to that problem but a bond... Well. A bond is a living breathing organism and therefore can accomplish much more than a spell. Nothing but remorse can return your soul fragments to you but I hypothesized I could use the bond to cauterize the soul wounds and stabilize you."

She smiled, forgetting for a moment her disgust over the subject matter as she reveled in the happiness that always came from intellectual triumph. "And I was right."

Tom snorted, apparently charmed by her earnestness even if he did still look annoyed by her entreaty. "I suppose that particular entreaty is less obnoxious than your other two," he told her, stroking a finger along her jawline and smiling when she shivered. "I rather enjoy being sane."

He released her with a sigh as he glanced down at Livius, who was still lying on the grass.

"I suppose we should deal with him so we can move along," he suggested, straightening his cufflink as he turned slightly away from his unconscious associate.

Hermione flushed, appalled that she had forgotten the injured man before she hurried to cast a 'Rennervate' and help Livius to sit up as he sputtered for air. After casting the same series of diagnostic spells to ensure the results stayed stable, Hermione announced that his core had replenished sufficiently for the man to be safe to apparate home to his wife and rest. Tom, after threatening his second in command to ensure his silence, made plans to meet with Livius to discuss what the man may or may not recall of his time being possessed the following day and sent him on his way.

"I have a surprise for you," Tom offered with a charming smile after Livius disappeared, extending his arm in a demand to side-along her to whatever it is he wanted to show her. Hermione hesitated but he raised his eyebrows and his mouth twitched in a sort of mocking challenge and with a huff, she clutched his elbow and allowed herself to be whirled away into the evening.

They landed with a resounding 'thump' outside hedges as tall and thick as the gates of Hogwarts. Hermione glanced around, taking in the heavily forested area that stopped approximately fifty yards before the more designed greenery began in earnest.

"Where are w-" she started to ask but cut off with a squeak when the hand that was still tucked into Tom's arm suddenly registered pressure and wetness that she knew was not there previously. She whirled around, staring wide-eyed as Tom cleaned the blade he had used to slice into her skin with a murmured spell and despite her struggle, pressed her bloodied hand into the hedge. He continued speaking under his breath in a language she recognized as Latin before the foliage shuddered and began to part. Hermione's breath caught as a small path opened and Tom pulled her through the gap, the greenery immediately moving back into place behind them.

Hermione wrenched her hand free and shot him a look that was designed to flay his skin from his bones.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing?!" She hissed at him. He tilted his head and studied her for a moment but she was distracted as she felt a shiver run up her spine when the wards around the area suddenly recognized her.

Her mouth gaped at the surge of power. The magic of this place was unbelievable. She turned on her heel, Tom momentarily forgotten entirely, glancing around to see a medium-sized tower house built of faded white brick and stone. Ivory vines crawled up the sides of the house and a large patio covered in all manner of magical plants sat in the side yard. Large double doors beckoned and with very little hesitation, Hermione moved towards the structure that positively oozed magic.

She heard Tom snort behind her and, remembering the original reason for her upset, she reluctantly abandoned her exploration in favor of turning back to him and fixing him with an icy glare.

"You cannot just cut people with a dagger whenever it suits your purposes, Tom," she informed him. "You –Merlin, I can't believe I'm having this conversation- you have to ask permission before using someone's blood for something."

Tom shook his head and spoke slowly as if explaining to a small child. "No Gaza, I do not have to ask permission to obtain blood from a person I require it of. In fact, most people I require blood from would be very unlikely to give their permission."

Hermione closed her eyes and tried very hard to tamp down her exasperation. "I am not your lackey, who you can simply demand things from whenever it pleases you," she stated firmly, "nor am I an enemy whose blood you spill for a different purpose entirely."

"No," Tom said with a smirk as he crossed to her and slipped an arm around her waist. "You are my wife."

He steered her back towards the Tower House while Hermione tried to meet his eye. "Yes, I am. And that means-"

"And this, Gaza," he interrupted her, pulling open one of the smooth, shiny double doors and ushering her inside, "is 'Nidum Serpentis.' Our happy little home."

Hermione choked and she watched as the room swam ever so slightly in her vision.

Bloody. Hell. _Of course_ she would now be expected to live with Tom Riddle. They were married, for Merlin's sake. How, how, HOW did she manage to overlook this?

The level of denial she was currently engaging in could not possibly be healthy.

"Our home," she echoed faintly, eyes sweeping over the large stone staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

"Oh yes," Tom assured her with a suspicious lack of irony, leading her to the left and into an entirely brick kitchen area. "Translates to 'The Serpent's Nest.' You see, Abraxas has been quite put out for some time that his Lord lived in a tiny flat in Knockturn Alley, of all places. I've known he was scouring the backlogs of unclaimed inherited properties to find something that he could suitably tempt me with."

"This stunning piece of magical architecture," he continued smoothly, leading her out of the kitchen, across the entrance hall, and into an adjoining parlor, "was built by Halwyn Slytherin the Third, last known heir of the Slytherin name before the Gaunts became the descendants, in 1487. It's been forgotten in the bowels of the Ministry Archives for quite some time but Abraxas, knowing better than to bring me anything associated with the Gaunt name, must have searched quite diligently to find this wedding present."

"Isn't the ring you made into a Horcrux a Gaunt Family heirloom?" Hermione asked faintly as he led her up the stairs. Though, of course, she knew the answer to that question. Her brain, it appeared, had turned to absolute mush.

Tom stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "I think one reminder of that particular family is more than enough. I should also point out that you are forbidden from speaking of my Horcruxes to anyone but myself."

That pulled Hermione out of her horrified musings enough to snort a laugh. "You can't forbid me from anything what-so-ever, Tom. And I had no intention of mentioning your Horcruxes outside of present company."

He stopped at the top of the stairs and smiled coldly down at her, cradling her cheeks in his hands. The skin flushed hotly beneath his fingers and she watched his eyes immediately darken and fall to half-mast. "Speaking of them to anyone who could use them to harm me, which I might remind you is everyone, would violate that lovely devotion entreaty I so recently secured for myself."

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead that seemed to leave behind scorch marks. "Therefore, little Gaza, you will find yourself _quite_ forbidden."

Part of Hermione, the intelligent and independent part of her, immediately riled at the thought of Tom Riddle being capable of prohibiting her from doing a damn thing. That part, unfortunately, was quickly drowning in the roar of her blood as it pulsed through her ears, making her deaf and dumb to everything but all the places the man in front of her was touching her. Tom's lips were dragging across her forehead and down her temple, his mouth caressing the skin in a chaste and yet fiercely erotic fashion that was leaving Hermione frozen in his grip.

Thoughts of Aeternum Adstringo and Not-Livius and normal Livius and a home with the Dark lord were rapidly quieting, her entire world narrowing down to the pinpoint of where Tom's lips were currently occupied by gently rubbing against the spot directly in front of her ear. His tongue peeked out and slid ever so lightly across her skin and her knees buckled, his arms moving quickly to catch her by the waist and hold her up as he moved ever lower.

Hermione's nose rubbed gently against Tom's as his breath swept along her cheek, his mouth finally stopping so close to hers that she could feel the heat of him across her own rosy flesh. She swore she could feel their magic crackle in the air around them, lighting the very atmosphere on fire as the moment hung hard and heavy, waiting to come crashing down on the both of them one way or another.

For a moment, the space of a breath, a screaming voice broke through the fog of absolute lust in her brain and it pounded at her, trying desperately to force her to remember that here stood Lord Voldemort, bringer of death and chaos and destruction and all things dark and evil. Who are you, it screeched, that you would stand here millimeters from the Darkest Wizard of your time and revel in it?

But then her soul (and she would later blame the bond for this weakness, this failing,) her very soul shuddered within her chest and the screaming quieted until it was almost as if it had never been there at all and Hermione, without hesitation and without the ability to stop herself, crashed into Tom and kissed him.

His magic washed over her and in a vague sort of distant appraisal, Hermione came to the conclusion that at that moment, she was utterly and irrevocably subsumed.


	11. Amalgamation

**Lemons, Lemons, Lemons. :)**

Tom was a man who prided himself on his control and composure. Sex was a means to an end, albeit a pleasurable one, and it had never caused him to do anything so unforgivable as loosen the iron clad reins he had on nearly every emotion and feeling he possessed.

But when his Gaza's perfect, soft lips collided with his own he felt something inside of him that had never before been so much as seen positively SNAP. His hands dug into the delicate curve of her hip, a completely foreign desperation to sink his very fingerprint into her skin until it would always be there, tattooed across the supple flesh, ruling his actions. A groan escaped his throat and the stunning witch in his arms moaned in response, her tongue reaching out with surprising shyness to dart against his lip.

Tom caught the delicate, pink muscle between his teeth and refused to let her retreat, sucking it into his mouth and caressing it with his own as Hermione whimpered against his chest. She was exquisite, like something utterly foreign he had never tasted before and really, he mused as he released her tongue only to suckle on her lower lip, it made perfect sense that should be his.

She was so powerful, so much _more_ than any other witch he had ever known. She was the best, and Tom Riddle would always have the best.

His hands wandered up the warm, bare skin of her back around to the front of her body, all the way to the very top of her dress. His fingertips slid inside the lace neckline as her own hands clutched almost helplessly at his biceps and Tom yanked the fabric down, allowing the lace to rip ever so slightly as he exposed her collar bones and the top of her breasts.

Creamy, succulent skin greeted him as he leaned back to admire her form after he swallowed her gasp of surprise. His Gaza pulled away slightly and glanced down nervously, eyes wide as she took in her exposed cleavage before she swallowed hard and glanced up at him.

"Tom," she whispered, hands opening and closing convulsively against his arms, "This is enormously fast and regardless of our binding, sex at this point would be-"

"-Fucking amazing-" he interrupted without hesitation, leaning down to run his tongue along her collarbone.

"-a terrible idea," Hermione finished weakly, though her hands moved seemingly of their own accord to run through Tom's raven hair.

A shiver of irritation at her reticence ran through him even as he tasted the sweet and salty flavor of her skin. Her magic flared wildly, running along her flesh in little skittish waves that made his own hungry to hunt those waves and crackles like predator and prey. He moved to the upward curve of her breast, placing open mouth kisses along the swell of one plump offering as Hermione tried desperately to stifle the sounds coming from her throat.

"Tom-" he heard her try again, her voice breathy for all that it was obvious she was attempting to sound firm and persuasive.

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth, allowing his forehead to rest on her chest as he breathed heavily. She wanted him, _it was so obvious_ that she wanted him, and yet she was fighting this just as he had known she would. It was maddening and infuriating, to have the woman that was his by fucking magical law deny him.

Bloody hell, he could feel that damned magic of hers pulse with the force of her desire and he bit back the growl that attempted to claw its way out of his chest. He had never actually had a woman he pursued refuse him; he was handsome and charming and powerful and women just _wanted_ him. But even if he had, Tom would never do something so vulgar as force himself on an unwilling partner. It was disgusting and crass and utterly beneath him to do so; he didn't have to. He was the fucking Dark Lord.

He had also never wanted to bury himself inside a witch as badly as he wanted to do so with the woman in his arms and it was doing nothing for his temper to have her try to persuade him he should do otherwise.

Tom raised himself back to his full height and forced his hands to release her, stepping away from Hermione and staring at her with fury and lust roiling beneath his skin. Hermione stumbled on wobbly knees without him there to support her weight and he had an entirely petty moment where he hoped her legs would give out and she'd bruise herself falling to the dark, varnished floor of the hallway.

Hermione raised a single shaking hand to her chest, panting heavily as she held her other palm up, facing outward in a clear plea for him to stay back. "Just give me a moment, Tom. _Please_. The bond and my brain and- Merlin, there are so many considerations, I-"

She trailed off as Tom scowled at her, shaking his head and moving with deliberation towards his new study. If he stayed there, staring at her breasts heaving in time with her breath and her swollen lips and her pretty flushed cheeks, he was going to do something ill-advised. Something like trying to incinerate her with fiendfyre, protection entreaty not-withstanding, or even worse, beg for her to let him inside her.

He was pouting, and he knew it, but Tom just did not care as he poured himself a healthy glass of firewhiskey and settled into his dragon skin armchair to stare broodingly into the fire. He swallowed half of the liquid heavily and reveled in the feeling of flames licking at his stomach. He was better than this, sulking like child, and so he knew that he would have to do something to release the pent-up frustration racing along his skin before he dealt with his new, alleged wife.

He tilted his head, considering if perhaps there were any toys in the Avery Dungeons at the moment. Tom frequently tortured others to prove a point or in a rage, but he did not often do so for sport. He didn't particularly enjoy it, usually. Never-the-less, he needed an outlet and all the fidelity he secured for himself was coming back to undermine his need to fuck something. Perhaps reveling in blood would sate him enough to at least have a conversation with the little chit instead of cursing her pointlessly in some fit of fury and then-

He nearly spilled his firewhiskey when suddenly Tom found his lap full of witch.

Hermione grabbed his glass and drained it and just as his jaw tightened and his fists clenched and Tom was preparing to absolutely verbally eviscerate her and remind her to REMEMBER-HER-FUCKING-PLACE, a dainty little hand grabbed his still half-hard length through the front of his trousers and his mind came grinding to a screeching halt.

"Thank you for giving me a moment to consider," she was saying as her fingers moved up to his belt buckle and began pulling the leather through the metal ring. "I just needed to get my head around this again, it's been a long day and-"

He cut her off with a searing kiss, one that left him just as breathless as his little Gaza was because quite frankly, he could not stand another moment of listening to her prattle. He sat back after a few moments, watching with bemusement as she brought shaking fingers to the buttons of his shirt. He raised a single, questioning eyebrow before waving a lazy hand and spelling away everything but their undergarments.

He stifled a chuckle as Hermione's hands flinched up to cover herself before she seemed to force them through sheer force of will back to rest on his chest. His amusement was short-lived as he got his first real glimpse of her in nothing but some little half-corset and knickers. She was utterly and entirely fuckable, delectable, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

"Aren't you just a scrumptious little treat, Gaza?" Tom murmured as he reached a finger up to graze across the skin of her abdomen. Hermione shuddered under his touch and he smiled as he allowed his hand to dip down to the skin directly above the waistband of her knickers. "All that fighting and that angst and for what?"

Both of his hands moved to span across the lower half of her stomach as his thumbs caressed the delicate skin that made up the crease of her thigh.

"You're mine now, irrevocably," he told her. "This moment of submission, this delicious time where you give every little piece of yourself that you've held back from me..."

Tom allowed his thumbs to dip into the warm heat between her thighs, rubbing against exquisite, slippery flesh as Hermione's head fell forward onto his shoulder and his eyes fluttered at the sensation of her arousal against his fingertips.

"It was inevitable," he finished, turning his head to growl into the skin of her neck even as he sunk two digits inside of her. He worked her on his fingers, feeling more than hearing her moans as she breathed them into his skin. He knew how much she had abhorred the idea of this, the thought of marrying and giving herself to Lord Voldemort. It made the way she began to break apart so much sweeter, so much _more_ of a victory and Tom could not have swallowed the vicious smirk that spread across his face if he tried when she tensed and keened and fell apart all over his fingers.

"That's it, little Gaza," he purred as he stroked her through it, his hips thrusting up involuntarily when her magic rippled out at her release and stroked along his skin. "Fuck, that's it. Let go for me."

He gave her no time to recover before he was lifting her up with him as he stood, carrying her from his private study out into the hallway and onward into their own suite. He dropped her pliant body onto the extremely large, four-poster monstrosity that would be their bed and crept up after her, plundering her mouth with his tongue as she mewled beneath him. Her magic still strummed in the air around him, hot and heavy on his sweat-damp flesh, and without another moment of hesitation, he spelled away the last of their clothes.

After swallowing his own groan as his here-to-for painful erection was released from its confines, he turned his attention to his Gaza's perky nipples. He sucked one pebbled nub into his mouth and Hermione gasped, threading her fingers into his hair and rubbing her thighs together.

"Tom," she keened as he moved to give the other breast equal attention, plucking the recently abandoned nipple harshly just to hear her gasp. He wrenched her thighs apart, displeased that she would try to seek out her own pleasure instead of allowing him to give it as was his right and while she might have protested any other time, he distracted her completely when he worried the nub in his mouth between his teeth.

He ignored her pleas of his name and 'please' and 'want you' until he was positive that she was near incoherent with an ache for him, and then, simply because he could, he suckled a little longer. She did, truly, have fantastic breasts and if he were not so hard that it had become physically painful, he may have teased her until her nipples were sore and raw from all of the many bites and love bites he wished to bestow on them.

'Next time,' Tom told himself as he moved up her body, still rubbing her nipples lightly between his fingers even as he moved to look into her completely hazy eyes. After all, he did not have it in him to stop torturing her with mouthwatering pleasure completely, not until he absolutely had to.

"Little Gaza," he cooed down at her, watching her try desperately to focus before her eyes found his.

"Please," she implored him once more, her succulent body arching beneath him in an appeal for friction.

Tom tilted his hips, allowing the tip of him to brush up against the little pearl of pleasure nestled at the top of her sex. Hermione squirmed beneath him, attempting to move him into position, but one of his hands abandoned her breast in favor of securing her hips to the bed.

"Say you need me," he demanded, still angry for her denial earlier and determined to bring her at least somewhat to heel.

To his surprise, she did not fight him but rather fixed him with a glare full of lust, resignation, and vengeful fire. "Oh yes, Tom," she bit out, defiant even as she squirmed beneath him. "You made sure of that with your entreaty, didn't you? I need you."

He smirked and leaned down to suckle on her once more, chuckling as she screeched and tried to kick him in frustration. Her magic flared out in her anger and although he had become somewhat desensitized to the crackles in the air that were constantly coming from his new wife, this surge brought out a growl that he could not contain and raced along his spine, increasing his own need to unbearable proportions.

"Shhh, little Gaza," he soothed, moving into position and taking mercy on her by releasing the breast he was still caressing. "I'll take care of you."

And he would, too. Tom Riddle ALWAYS took care of his prized possessions and she was his very favorite one.

Tom bit back a moan as he slid into unbearably slick, tight heat. Her flesh had admittedly hugged along his fingers, but along his cock, she was a god's damned vice.

"Fuck," he muttered before he could stop himself, pulling back shallowly and thrusting back in, unwilling to leave the sheath of her body long enough for a deep, full stroke yet.

His Gaza's fingernails dug into his back leaving crescent mark pinpricks of pain in their wake and causing Tom to involuntarily pull himself out and thrust back in HARD. Hermione let out a wail of pleasure as her back arched off the bed and he felt her tighten impossibly around him.

"Witch," he warned her just before she dug her fingernails in again and drug them along the length of his spine.

Up until now, he had retained control. He had held back and he had played her like the stunning musical instrument she was, pulling pleasure from her body and moving forward at the exact speed he wished to. But pain was absolutely his weakness and no woman had ever given it to him, too afraid of retribution or to go too far.

His Gaza was not afraid of fucking anything and when on the next pass of her nails she drew blood, Tom broke.

He felt his mind haze over as he brought himself out of her almost all the way and slammed back in with enough strength that Hermione was pushed up the bed.

"Yes!" she panted beneath him as he took her hard, again and again as she arched beneath him, body straining impossibly to pull him further inside her.

Tom felt her flutter around him and vaguely he noted how thick the air was, how magically charged the space around them was, but he couldn't be bothered to care as he brought one hand down and rubbed harshly as her little bundle of nerves. He was not gentle, he was brutal and he supposed if she was capable of perceiving pain it would have been too much but since she wasn't, he heard her whimper and felt her begin to clamp down around him just as the tightening in his lower stomach wound impossibly tighter.

With a feral snarl, he pinched the flesh between his fingers and his Gaza positively screamed her release into the night. Her magic surged and crackled, lighting him on fire from the inside just as his orgasm rocked through him. His own magic roared out and melted into hers once again before imploding violently outward.

One of the bedposts cracked under the force and fell on them, crashing into Tom's head and he did not even have time to curse before blackness swallowed him.


	12. Lull

**AN: I know I have made you all wait almost a month for this update and I can't possibly apologize enough for that. I am one of the lucky rare cases of people who developed chronic mono and my worst symptom with it is the fatigue. Writing ALWAYS makes me sleepy, so you can imagine how writing with mono was almost an impossibility. I'm feeling a little better, so I thought I'd get a chapter out while I can. Hopefully, this is the upward swing and not simply an interlude, but I appreciate your patience and your continued interest. You guys are the very best of readers!**

Hermione sat on her new four-poster bed, wrapped loosely with a black satin sheet pulled up over her chest as she ran her fingers absentmindedly through Tom's hair. The other half of the sheet she was using was draped almost artistically along the very bottom of his hips and if she did not know better, she would swear the unconscious man had preemptively somehow charmed it to lay against him enticingly even in slumber.

After the bedpost struck Tom, it had taken a great deal of concentration to magically lift both him and the large wooden post from her person enough for her to slip out, because there was no way she was going to manage it manually. A frantic series of diagnostic spells had assured her that while he was solidly unconscious, the Dark Lord was otherwise unharmed and Hermione had heaved a sigh of relief that she was choosing not to examine too closely at his safety.

She had levitated the broken bedpost off to the side of the bed and climbed back across the sheets, fully intending to awaken her new husband, but something had made her hesitate. Now she sat with his head nestled in her lap while she studied his features in his repose.

He was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but of course, even in her time there never had been any. While the sallow-skinned, red-eyed creature she was personally familiar with was not someone any person would ever accuse of being attractive, everyone who knew him before that ill-advised transformation had been very clear that Tom Riddle was handsome and charming. Looking at him now, Hermione could not help but think they had undersold him.

She ran a finger over the strong curve of one full eyebrow, down the elegant line of his nose, and finally caressed the bow of his mouth. Everything about him was masculine perfection and even in his unconscious state, he still looked dangerously serious.

Invulnerable. Even at his most defenseless, lying here in the cradle of her lap with no way to defend himself from harm, Tom Riddle appeared invulnerable.

Hermione's eyes closed on a sigh as she tried to figure out the absolute mess of emotions roiling in her gut. She had known that Tom was going to eviscerate her with his entreaties and she had tried very hard to mentally arrange herself for anything he could throw at her, and yet, she felt woefully unprepared for the full impact of the ways he had chosen to tether her.

Truth was a fairly easy one, all things considered. Hermione was a shite liar regardless if she was being honest with herself, and she hated being deceitful. To her, it was not too much of a problem to have the option of being dishonest removed from her repertoire. It was not as if she could not simply choose to keep silent.

Devotion was much trickier, though. Suddenly, Tom's needs seemed so incredibly paramount. She had not liked it one bit when he had been upset following the ceremony and she simply could not imagine doing anything that would cause him harm. His order that she not speak to anyone about his horcruxes had been laughable, frankly. It was not even that she _could not_ do anything that could potentially lead harm to come to him; the entreaty removed completely her will to do so. She _wanted_ good things for Tom now, only good things.

It was like loving someone, only without the actual love. It was painfully clever of him, really. Devotion covered a number of other things all at once. Now she _wanted_ to protect him, _wanted_ to see him happy, _wanted_ to help him reach his goals.

He had made himself fiercely important to her. It was enormously disconcerting.

Finally, there was the last and the absolute worst entreaty. It was proof, as far as she was concerned, that Tom really was evil. Of course, that was a laughable thought; he was already evil, what with the mass killings and the torture and the hunting of infants and what not. But this was an evil that hit her on a more personal level than any of the other atrocities he had ever committed, and that was certainly saying something since she had been hunted by a regime composed of his lackeys in a past life.

Now, Hermione _needed_ him. There were so many ways that entreaty could have manifested but based on how she could not seem to stop petting the Dark Lord and how quickly he had gotten into her knickers, she was betting on it being based in touch. Of course, the bit about the sex being mixed up with the entreaty could just be wishful thinking of her part. It would be so much easier to swallow if the reason she fell into bed with him so readily was because of the entreaty and not because she was fiercely attracted to him; not because she was strangely and disturbingly fond of him.

Hermione bit her lip as her fingers reached down to run through the hair that lightly coated Tom's chest. It was not as if she hadn't had sex before. She had lost her virginity to sweet, kind Viktor Krum the summer of fourth year and there had been two additional trysts with muggle boys before the war. Her and Ron had never gotten to that point, never gotten past one kiss really, but she _had_ experienced some things before last night.

Everything was different with Tom though. The more time she spent in 1955, the more she was coming to realize she was not the girl who would have become Ms. Hermione Weasley-Granger. Tom was changing her. Merlin, she was fairly confident she was changing him too. The very Fates were exceedingly livid with them both because they were changing so much.

Nothing was happening to plan, she realized. Hermione had never been one to lie to herself and she did not intend to start now. She still had her end goals and they hadn't changed but everything else-

Everything was fluid at this point. Her life was in flux and so much was dependent on how exactly this bonding affected both herself and the up-and-coming Lord Voldemort.

She wondered if he would live to regret insisting on Aeternum Adstringo; she wanted to hope that he would. The part of her made new by the bond wouldn't let her.

With a sigh, Hermione ran her hands one more time through Tom's hair before placing her index and middle finger against his temple.

"Rennervate," she whispered.

Tom's lashes fluttered and his eyes opened, clearing almost immediately before fixing her with a look that seemed to pull her bodily into the depthless pools of his deep, brown eyes. Hermione paused in an attempt to order her mind before she cleared her throat.

"Gaza," he greeted her, making no attempt to sit up or remove his head from her lap.

"Tom," she replied evenly.

He blinked, lifting up slightly to glance at the broken bedpost before dropping his head back down and looking at her once more. "I see that in our ardor, we appear to have broken the bed."

She felt her lips twitch up slightly in a grin. "Yes."

He blinked again before coiling upwards, pulling himself to a seated position. He turned back to her, his eyes immediately dropping to her chest. In a flash, Hermione realized that his movement had pulled the sheet from around her, exposing her breasts to him, and she let out a squeak and began to disentangle her legs from the sheets frantically before she realized how pointless it was. He had already seen everything, after all. Based on the way his eyes had darkened dramatically in the last few seconds, he had every intention of seeing it all again.

'And Merlin help me,' she thought, swallowing heavily as she watched him shift sinuously on the bed and begin to crawl towards her, 'I might just let him.'

Before she had decided whether she should go ahead and scramble for a robe or a towel or just _something_ to cover her regardless (because really, she should not be giving in this easily to some marriage-binding-manufactured yearning and that _had_ to be all this was,) Tom was upon her. His hand caught her at the throat and pushed her to the bed, not squeezing her airway but simply holding her down beneath him.

She opened her mouth to protest because she _should not_ like that, the dominance and the strength of that gesture, but all that came out was a whimper as he sucked her left nipple between his lips without preamble. Hermione squirmed beneath him as he stroked her with his tongue, a small moan of pleasure escaping her lips when he hummed into her skin. He released her breast with a pop and lifted his hand from her throat, slithering up her body to press his lips to hers. The stubble along his chin rubbed against the sensitive skin of her jawline as he licked into her mouth where her traitorous lips had parted seemingly without her permission.

Tom leaned back after a moment with the distinct look of a cat in a sunspot. "I would love to continue this, Little Gaza," he murmured, voice filled with gravely velvet and promises she could not even begin to consider.

"You have AMAZING breasts and I find myself very enthused to become thoroughly familiar with them," he continued, tweaking her nipples roughly and causing her to sputter in outrage as the haziness cleared in the face of his objectification. All sensualness from the moment before was swiftly dispelling in the face of his presumption. He stood quickly and crossed to the closet, ignoring her completely as he disappeared into its depths.

"However, Livius will be here late tomorrow afternoon and I have quite a few things to organize before I meet with my second."

Tom emerged from the closet, buttoning his crisp white oxford as Hermione stood, ignoring her nudity in her fervor to address what had just happened.

Yes, she had consented to sex last night. Yes, she had not told him to stop when he-

Well, when he-

When he... _suckled_ on her this morning. But that did not mean that he could just touch her whenever he wanted now; not if he was going to talk about her body with such familiarity and treat her like a toy he would just wind up and get back to whenever he pleased.

"Just a minute, Tom," she began, planting her arms on her bare hips as he walked towards the dresser for his suspenders. "We need to discuss boundaries and what happened last night, because just because w-"

"Apologies, Deliciae," he threw over his shoulder as he strolled from the room and down the hall towards his study. "I simply haven't the time at the moment. Perhaps I will have time for your talk of 'boundaries' after dinner tomorrow. Get some rest, explore the house-"

Hermione was stalled in the doorway, shocked by the emergence of a new endearment, when Tom paused just before his study, turning to shoot her a cold look of warning.

"Do not disturb me," he ordered calmly before turning and disappearing beyond the door.

The sound of the door closing with finality brought her back to reality and she shrieked, rage at his casual dismissal made all the more potent by her embarrassment at how easily she became wanton and pliable for him. With that in mind, she stomped after him, not pausing to knock before barging through the door-

Only to be stopped by wards that absolutely and unequivocally barred entry. Hermione buried her hands in her hair and slammed her foot down, growling as she flicked her wrist, forcing the warding to be revealed to her.

She could, potentially, dismantle it but the process would take her hours and she found at least one or two wards she did not recognize. The work could be all for not. She was further frustrated to see the soundproofing that meant all her screeching and yelling would not be heard by the infuriating man on the other side.

Well, she thought with a huff even as her cheeks flushed. That was probably for the best. She had let her temper get the better of her but she would likely be embarrassed by chasing after him to yell at him while nude later.

Glancing down at her still naked body, Hermione groaned before moving back to the master bedroom. She went to the closet, thinking to borrow one of Tom's shirts until her clothes could be recovered tomorrow, when she saw that one side of the entirely _massive_ walk-in already contained all her belongings, including her shoes, undergarments, and her book on hair charms.

Hermione closed her eyes and let out a long, aggrieved sigh. He was so very _presumptuous_. In fact, he had gone so far as to ADD clothing to her wardrobe and while it matched the style of everything he had seen her wear, she was still aggravated that he thought he had some sort of right to dress her. It was as if now that they were married, he thought her completely his and he was taking far too many liberties with her person.

Of course, she reminded herself with a wry grin even as she slipped into a silk dressing gown for the evening, that's exactly what he thought. He'd made that painfully clear on multiple occasions.

Entreaties or not, however, she was not giving in without a fight. NO ONE owned her. No one. And she intended to make that perfectly clear to him; evidently, tomorrow after dinner.

Hermione moved back into the bedchamber, settling herself at the vanity table there and magically removing the many pins from her hair. With a yawn, because she really was very tired, she decided to take Tom's advice and get some sleep. She settled herself on the large bed and pulled the previously abandoned comforter up around her, burrowing into the covering until she was thoroughly cocooned. She drifted off almost immediately.

* * *

Hermione awoke the following morning with an itch under her skin. A quickly cast 'dies' told her the time was half-past ten and as her stomach rumbled, she pulled herself from the bed and made her way to the kitchen.

She shrieked when she came around the corner to see a small, approximately three-foot tall creature standing in front of the old-fashioned stove, stirring a pot that she vaguely registered smelled like porridge. The figure also yelped in surprise, sending a glob of the breakfast food into the air that landed squarely on the creature's bald head.

Hermione's eyes widened before she closed them and let her breath out through her teeth in rage and hopelessness. Bloody hell, a house elf?! Really?

"Begging your pardons, Mistress," the house elf squeaked from across the room, forcing Hermione's eyes to open and focus on the gray skinned, blue eyed elf in front of her. "Gilmy is making the breakfasts, you see, since you being awake, and thought you be waiting in the bedroom."

Sucking in a quick breath, Hermione kneeled and indicated for the elf (Gilmy, she had said her name was) to come towards her. In her many studies, she had learned quite a bit about house elf enslavement and while she still found the practice abhorrent, she understood better how their magic and bindings worked. Simply freeing an elf was cruel, and there were a number of factors to consider when determining how to appropriately handle such a circumstance. She intended to decide how she would be addressing this situation _before_ Tom could appear and get a say in the matter.

"Gilmy, I have a few questions I need you to answer, if that's alright," she told her. Gilmy nodded, wringing her hands slightly in her clean, light pink pillowcase.

"Does Tom know you're here?" She asked, wanting to determine that fact right away.

"Yes, Mistress," Gilmy answered, nodding her head so fast her ears bounced. "I was to be seeing the Master first thing when I got here on this morning, so I be finding him in the study. He telling Gilmy not to go in there agains and to see to the Mistress today."

Hermione's eyes widened and she looked over Gilmy for any signs that Tom had hurt her. He had been VERY clear that no one was to enter, but elf magic simply was not subject to warding. "Did he harm you in any way?" she asked.

Gilmy shook her head fervently. "No Mistress! Master just be sayin' not to be going in theres and then he sending me aways."

She let out a sigh of relief. Cruelty to house elves was not something she could ever abide.

"So," Hermione continued, "if Tom did not bring you here, how did you come to be here?"

The elf smiled. "Gilmy is a gift from Master Bast and Mistress Jocey," she said.

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion before she remembered which Death Eater family had those names. "The Rosiers?" she asked.

Gilmy nodded.

"Okay, Gilmy. Are you a gift to the Riddle Family, the homestead, to Tom, or to myself?"

With the way that house elf bindings worked, it was important to understand what the house elf had bound his or herself to. When a house elf was born, they were typically bound to the family home so that their allegiances could be moved. A house elf bound to a property itself was afforded the protections of the family or organization but was able to be removed and rebound elsewhere. An elf bound to a person was bound until that person's death, when their allegiance would again be able to be shifted. But a house elf bound to a family was entrenched thoroughly in that family's magic and would be bound to that family until that elf's death. Breaking a bonding with a family or an individual was extremely painful and sometimes fatal for the house elf, depending on how well the elf had been treated. Elf abuse could severely weaken the bond and make it easier to break, but the concept of 'free elves' that Hermione had once championed was a myth. Elves needed to be bound to something, or their magic became wildly unstable and would, eventually, kill them or drive them into madness. She wasn't entirely sure what happened with Dobby, but she suspected that he spontaneously bonded with Harry or Dumbledore and simply chose not to say.

"Gilmy is being a gift for the Riddle Family, Mistress," the little elf assured her.

Hermione sighed and bit her lip. _Of course,_ it couldn't be the simple matter of the elf binding to 'Nidum Serpentis'; it had to be to the _family_. Her family now, she supposed.

"Alright, Gilmy," Hermione told her with a blatant air of defeat. "A few rules then."

Gilmy's eyes widened and she looked distinctly nervous, but she nodded. "Yes, Mistress."

Hermione grimaced. "That's first. None of this 'Mistress' business," she said firmly. "You can ask Tom what he wishes to be called, but I would prefer if you simply called me 'Hermione,' or 'Mione' if that's easier to say."

"Oh, Gilmy could not be doing that..." Gilmy said nervously, taking a step back from Hermione. She smiled grimly, not overly surprised but disappointed. Well, she had to try at least.

"How about 'Ms. Mione'? Would that be acceptable to you?" She asked.

Gilmy seemed to consider for a moment before slowly nodding. "Yes, Missy Mione. Gilmy can be calling you that."

"Good," Hermione told her with a bland smile. "We can discuss most everything else later, but this is the most important rule and I want you to follow it without fail. You must try very hard not to punish yourself. I know sometimes you cannot help it, but if you feel you must, you are REQUIRED to come to me to assign your punishment. I will decide it."

Hermione knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, sadly, the urge to punish themselves when they felt they had displeased their masters was bred into the little elves. There was no possible way that Gilmy would escape the urge entirely. Hermione only hoped she would be able to direct Gilmy to something not destructive disguised as a punishment in such an event.

Gilmy nodded and with a curtsy, she moved back to finish making the porridge while Hermione settled herself as the table. She flicked her wand, sending the kettle on to boil as she watched the elf cook and serve breakfast. She did not want a house elf, it was true, but she would not cause the poor creature discomfort by telling _her_ that.

After breakfast, Hermione found herself feeling even worse than before she ate and decided she must be restless. She wandered the house, learning the layout and where everything was located.

On the first floor, in addition to the kitchen and the parlor she had already seen, there was a formal dining room and a sunroom that connected to the patio off the side of the home. The second floor housed the master bedroom, which had an en suite, along with two additional bedrooms, Tom's private study, and a library. The third floor consisted of a potions lab, a storage space, and a large room that curiously had her name spelled onto the door.

Wandering in, Hermione smiled to find that she, too, would be afforded a private study. Tom (at least, she assumed it was Tom) had placed a large drawing desk in the room which faced a huge bay window where the sun would stream in all morning and into the early afternoon. A bookshelf beside the desk was filled with runic dictionaries and ancient texts on their magical applications, while the rest of the walls were similarly covered in unfilled bookshelves. There was a chaise lounge set up in a corner of the room along with an end table and reading light. The color scheme in this room stood in direct contrast to the rest of the house, with the wood stained a light honey color and the walls painted a sunny yellow. The floor under the drawing desk was a creamy and plush shag carpet, the kind one could dig one's toes into.

Hermione bit back a very girlish squeal at the sight of the room before her face fell into consternation. She absolutely loved this room, and it had clearly been redecorated with her thoughts and preferences entirely in mind. Why would Tom even bother with such a thing?

All morning Hermione's head had been increasingly pounding and thoughts of trying to sort out Tom's strange behavior were not helping at all. The pounding peaked slightly and a sudden wave of nausea had her crossing to the sky-blue chaise and lying down. She felt slightly better as she reclined so with the thought to get a little reading done, Hermione summoned a book at random from the shelf and settled into the comfortable cushioning around her.

She studied the title, "Pecti-Wita Runes vs. The Pictish Alphabet: An in Depth Analysis on the Applications of both on Spellcraft," by Yuri Blishen. Intrigued despite the way the words swam in front of her ever so slightly, Hermione opened the book to the title page and noted that the tome was a first edition.

'Of course it is,' she thought with a small shake of her head that only made her dizzier. Only the best for Tom Riddle, and by proxy, Hermione Riddle as well. She gave a wry smile and began to read.

 **Deliciae - Delight, Pleasure**


	13. Designs and Formulations

**AN: Hello faithful readers! After taking a huge turn for the worse the past month, my health has been much better the past week and I am cautiously optimistic that I am recovering/ed. With that in mind, it is my intention to go back to somewhere between weekly and bi-weekly updates! I have so many ideas of where this story is headed and have genuinely missed being well enough to write.**

Tom leaned back in his scaled desk chair, stretching out the stiff muscles of his abs and arms before he relaxed back down with his forearms resting on his mahogany desk. He unrolled the shirt cuffs that had been pushed up to his elbow before he rebuttoned the few buttons he had undone whilst he had worked for comfort's sake. The night had been long and though Tom had caught a few hours rest on the long, dragon skin couch that matched his armchairs, he remained rather tired.

Still, he thought as he stood and cracked his back with a satisfied smirk, he had certainly gotten quite a bit of his plans in order. Now he looked forward to putting a few of them in motion with Nott. He cast a 'Dies,' determining that Livius would be arriving soon and it was time to clear his desk and greet his second. Tom smiled coldly, wondering if his dearest bride would have calmed enough to join them for a polite tea.

While he had thoroughly enjoyed benefiting from the bond they had solidified so recently, it was necessary to ensure that Hermione did not forget what her place was here. She was welcome to her role at his left side as his wife and to her own pursuits, but he had important work that could not stall simply because she felt the need to discuss something or another. His crown jewel was a delightful creature and he, surprisingly, was finding it quite diverting to spend time with her, but his plans came first.

He flicked his wrist, sending his wand skimming along the skin of his inner arm and into his palm before he cast a quick spell to remove the wrinkles from shirt and slacks. Another wrist movement moved the scattered parchment into neat, organized piles. He crossed to the wet bar and poured himself a tumbler of fire whiskey before rekindling the fire that was still crackling with a thought and moving to the door of his study.

Tom shivered under the pleasurable caress of the wards, making sure they were firmly in place before setting off in search of his Gaza. He paused, disinclined to search the entire property, before taking another sip of his drink and leaning casually against the wall.

"Gilmy," he called.

The house elf appeared in front of him, ears quivering as she studied her feet. "Yes Master?"

"Where is Hermione at the moment?" he queried.

"Missy Mione be laying down in her special room, Master," Gilmy squeaked. "Master Livius be seeing to her and her ills."

Tom raised an eyebrow and felt a spike of worry lace through him that he attempted to beat down brutally. Fucking entreaties.

"What sort of ills?" He demanded sharply.

Gilmy shuffled her feet and swallowed, obviously feeling uncomfortable as the object of Tom's intense scrutiny. "The Mistress is be feeling sick, yes she is. She falling asleeps, but not be waking back up."

Sharp panic skewered through Tom, lacing up and down his spine in an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation as he ignored the little elf further and moved swiftly to the staircase to climb to the upper floor. His long stride ate up the distance quickly as he moved with purpose towards the study he had arranged for his Deliciae. He did not pause as he pushed the door open with more force than was necessary to be greeted by the sight of Livius kneeling by the lounge that his little wife was stretched out on, casting spells in quick succession in an attempt to determine the source of her malady.

Upon his arrival, Livius quickly stood and turned to him, face pale and eyebrows drawn together. He inclined his head respectfully before speaking.

"My Lord," Livius murmured. "I cannot determine the source of the lady's unconsciousness and you were unreachable in your study. I cast a series of-"

Tom cut him off with a snarl, fierce protectiveness and possessiveness wracking through his body.

"Be silent," he ordered the now sheet-white man as he crossed the room and took up Livius's previous position.

Without thought, Tom reached forward and brushed Hermione's hair from her forehead, forcing himself not to startle when she immediately gasped for air and grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip. Without opening her eyes, his Gaza sat up and launched herself into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

Tom grimaced slightly, unnerved by the strange and uncharacteristic show of affection before he remembered that they were not alone in the room. Wrapping his free arm around her waist, he lifted the woman in his arms with him as he moved to a seated position before settling himself onto the lounge where she had previously been and leaning back, allowing her to rest her body against his.

Livius stood wide-eyed and uncomfortable by the window and with a sharp nod, Tom directed him to settle in the desk chair he had provided for Hermione's work.

Ignoring his second for the moment, Tom turned his attention back to his little wife.

"Hermione?" he murmured into her hair, unsurprised when the still shaking figure in his arms gave no indication she had heard him. While the unconsciousness had ended, her coherence was still questionable and a theory, both disturbing and intriguing, was slowly forming in his mind as to why.

He had, of course, entreated for Hermione's need. He had sought to bind her to him more closely and while that goal appeared to have been accomplished, he had not anticipated that the repercussions of that entreaty would be so dire. If the way the normally hesitant woman was clinging to him so shamelessly was any indication, the repercussions were TRULY debilitating.

Fuck, he thought as completely foreign and uncharacteristic guilt (courtesy no doubt of _her_ empathy entreaty) laced through his heart. He had created an ILLNESS in her. He had not intended to deny her the ability to fulfill the entreaty by retreating to his study overnight, and even if he had, he never would have anticipated her violent reaction to it.

As the guilt began to wrap itself around his consciousness, Tom hesitated. This was... interesting. If he concentrated, he could isolate the feeling of remorse as not actually belonging to him. That emotion was manufactured, and with effort, he could recognize it as such and-

Maybe not dismiss it, no, but at least minimize its impact.

He allowed his hand to run through his Gaza's hair, working passively towards her health and awakening as he considered his emotional state since the conclusion of the bonding ceremony. As a rule, Tom was not controlled by the whims of his... _feelings_. Emotions were distasteful, to be sure, and lesser beings allowed them to steer their every move. Some emotions were helpful and if harnessed properly, could be used and manipulated to his benefit. Others, however, served no purpose other than to distract and detract from his goals.

Guilt was one such emotion. If allowed the opportunity to go back in time and change his entreaty, Tom would not choose to do so regardless of his Deliciae's current state. The need entreaty served a very specific and sought after purpose and he would not give it up, not even to ease his little wife's discomfort nor the strain he felt from the bond. Considering that truth, as well as the fact that Tom Riddle had never truly felt remorse for any of the choices he had made in his life, it was easy to categorize the guilt he was feeling as artificial and, as always, useless.

The same could be said of his own discomfort in response to Hermione's following the ceremony yesterday. To simply feel BADLY because she did was... inefficient, to name the least of the issues with it. In regards to his other emotions since then; the rage was entirely familiar and organic. His lust for her could have been impacted by the bond, but he sincerely doubted it; he needed no help in wanting her. The possessiveness had been prevalent all along and interestingly enough, while it would be easy to dismiss the protectiveness as manufactured and false, he would allow himself no delusions: it was not. The protectiveness that he felt for the witch in his arms was entirely real and perhaps that made the entreaty for it a moot point.

Then again, without the entreaty, he certainly would have cursed her yesterday for saddling him with something so undesirable as empathy. He suspected _she_ would still consider that particular provision from their bonding a necessary one.

"My Lord?"

Livius's soft voice broke Tom out of his musings and he looked over to the other man, noting his second's worry and obvious affection for the woman wrapped around his leader. Tom narrowed his eyes.

"The events of today will go no further than your own council," Tom warned him in a silky tone that had the other man suppressing a shiver. "No one but those in this room are aware of the details of our binding, nor the repercussions of such, and I will not tolerate this information being available as a weapon against either her or myself."

In all honesty, he trusted Nott as much as he trusted any other creature on this earth and if he was forced to allow this particular weakness to be known to anyone, the man in front of him would have been his choice. Of course, he could simply obliviate his second but he rather liked the idea of having the man's not insignificant mind at his disposal when addressing the current issue at hand.

"Of course, Tom," Livius said earnestly. "I swear it."

"Naturally," he confirmed, bringing up a hand to absentmindedly run along his wife's cheekbone. "I admit, I am surprised by the level of need the entreaty created. This is not what I anticipated when I planned this."

Livius nodded thoughtfully, biting his lip as he ran a hand through his golden curls. "It's possible that the desperation and frequency will decrease over time," he suggested. "We know bonds are living, sentient organisms. As her natural fondness for you rises, the bond will likely work on her less and less to create the artificial version."

Tom closed his eyes and sighed. "One can hope. This is largely inconvenient for all parties involved."

He felt Hermione squirm ever so slightly in his lap and leaned back, noting with no small amount of relief that her eyelids were beginning to flutter. She was waking, and although part of him dreaded her response upon reaching consciousness, the bond was skittering across his spine and reminding him that her protection was his responsibility. A third part of him, a part that was not being throttled by the compulsions of the entreaties, also reveled in the fiery response he would likely receive once she realized exactly what he had done to her.

His little Gaza's eyes blinked open and she slowly took in her position in his lap, hesitantly lifting her gaze until finally it met Tom's own.

He lifted an eyebrow and granted her a small grin. "Hello, Deliciae," he greeted smoothly. "How kind of you to rejoin us."

She closed her eyes on a sigh and sat up, bringing her hands up to push the hair away from her face. "How long was I unconscious?" She asked tiredly.

Tom's shoulder lifted in a half shrug. "Hard to say, since I was entirely mired in my work and unavailable. I emerged to find you in such a state. Livius?"

Hermione startled, eyes widening as she snapped them to Nott's; she clearly had not yet noted they were not alone. He gave an awkward wave to her and looked back to Tom. "I arrived around half past four, and when your little elf immediately brought me here, she was already out."

"Gilmy," Tom said calmly, watching as the creature popped into the room with downcast eyes. "Are you aware of when the Mistress left the land of the awakened?"

Gilmy nodded, ears flapping. "Yes, Master. Missy Mione be falling asleeps at one and oh clock."

Tom nodded. "Dismissed," He said. "You may go."

"Thank you, Gilmy," Hermione blurted quickly, shooting Tom a look of exasperation.

She watched the elf pop away and then seemed to realize she was still firmly seated in Tom's lap. She squeaked and made a move to get up, but he tightened his arms around her, holding her in place.

"Now Gaza," he chastised with a cruel smirk. "Let's not be hasty. It appears your need for me has resulted in you falling ill. By all evidence, it seems the compulsion is based on touch and I am not entirely sure we should remove you from the source of your, ah, _medicine_ so soon. After all, you've only begun to recover."

Internally, Tom felt a part of him relax in relief. With his little wife safe and awake, the entreaties loosened their hold and he began to feel much more like himself.

Hermione's eyes narrowed and her fists clenched as she glared at him, magic skittering across her skin in her anger. His smile widened. There she was, his Valkyrie with her claws out.

"And whose fault, precisely, is it that I need to be in close, personal contact with you frequently in order not to faint like some 1930's silent movie damsel?" She hissed at him. "Really Tom, you've created a problem for the both of us. Do you really intend to move forward with your epic plans of world domination with me clinging to your front like a- like a- like a bloody spider monkey?!"

Tom raised an eyebrow at her outburst. 'A spider monkey?'

Livius coughed, a blatant attempt to hide a snigger at the imagery, and Hermione turned her blazing eyes to him in fierce warning. Tom watched with no small amount of amusement as Nott quickly averted his eyes and cleared his throat.

"Apologies, my lady," he murmured.

His Gaza grimaced at the address but otherwise ignored him, forcing her eyes back to Tom's.

"This is unsustainable," she growled at him, squirming again to move to her feet. This time, he let her go with a small smirk as he watched her build herself up. "I have plans, as do you, and you made certain promises regarding my position within your organization. I will be required to be able to be competent for long periods of time, often without your presence, in order to effectively fulfill my responsibilities and effect the changes that I intend to."

She collapsed next to him on the chaise, reaching an absentminded hand out towards his thigh before she caught herself and sat on the hand instead.

Tom smirked at her aborted attempt to pet him. "Don't be slow, Gaza. It does not suit one of your intellect. Regardless of your position and your plans, the chances of you ever being present in a meeting without me are slim to exactly none."

He regarded her coldly as she opened her mouth, likely to protest, but he cut her off. "This is a dictatorship, Lady Riddle. It would be in your best interest not to forget it."

Livius, Tom noted, was sitting silently and wide-eyed, his gaze shifting back and forth frantically as he watched his Lord and Lady square off. Sadly, unless he could gain some unforeseen leverage over his lovely bond mate, it was likely a sight his inner circle should grow used to; the woman was nothing if not stubborn. Now he could no longer even attempt to curse her into compliance.

Marriage, it seemed, was to be complicated.

"A dictatorship it may be," Hermione told him through gritted teeth, slamming her palm down on the chaise cushion for emphasis, "but I was assured certain things through our negotiations and our bond and I have every intention of taking full advantage of them."

She stood once more and glared down at him; cheeks flushed, hair and clothing disheveled, and lips quivering with pique. She was stunning in her rage and her magic swirled, once again spiking Tom's arousal and causing him to want nothing more than to sweep her from the room and put her right back where she belonged; under him.

"Married or not, bonded or not," she continued in a low voice, "I belong to no one. You don't own me, Tom Riddle. I _will_ have what was promised, and if you think I'll let a little thing like needing to touch you stop me, you don't know me at all. You _will not_ control me with this entreaty, or I will find a way to gut you with my own."

With that, she turned on heel and fled from the room. Tom watched her go with fury and lust pounding through his veins, a common mixture when it came to his Deliciae. He should chase her down and, once again, teach her all of the many ways he did, in fact, own her. It was a lesson she clearly needed additional instruction on. But alas, there was work to be done.

He turned his attention back to his second, who was watching Tom carefully with a guarded expression. Despite his efforts to remain impassive, the man looked distinctly ill, as if he expected his Lord to murder his new wife and force Livius to dispose of the body.

Well, Nott had just watched perhaps the only person who would ever survive threatening the Dark Lord do just that. It was an unfamiliar sight.

Tom sighed. "She has a protection entreaty, remember?" He said with exasperation. "I can't exactly hurt her."

Livius shook his head far too vehemently, the strangeness of the situation clearly shaking his usual iron composure. "I am not concerned about her fate, my Lord."

Tom smirked. "You've always been exceptionally poor at deception, Livius. I do not suggest you begin by practicing with me."

Before the Nott could respond, he stood and stretched slightly. "Leave her for the moment. If she wishes to be involved in the politics, she'll be forced to return to us soon enough," he said. "In the meantime, it is time for dinner and after, there are far more important things to discuss than the whims of women."

Hermione joined them at the table halfway through the meal and Tom did not even attempt to hide his delight at her small capitulation. She may have been furious at him, but nothing so small as rage would ever stop that woman from her _noble_ work of attempting to manipulate his goals.

"How lovely of you to join us, Little Gaza," Tom commented blandly as he took a small bite of his roast pheasant.

Hermione, who evidently had gotten her anger under tight control, smiled at him. "I wouldn't miss a planning meeting for the world, dearest husband."

He bit back his smirk.

After supper, the group of three retreated to his study where he allowed both of them to pass through his wards and settle in front of the fire. Hermione moved with purpose to the sofa, kicking her boots off at the end before she curled up against one end with her feet tucked securely beneath her. Tom took an armchair and Livius, after a moment's hesitation, took the other.

He smiled coolly at his wife and follower before beginning. "Livius, allow me to re-introduce you to the newest member of the inner circle," Tom said, vaguelly flicking his fingers in the direction of his wife. "Upon our bonding, Hermione joined us as a sort of consultant. While you will retain the official capacity of Second, as my Deliciae intends to work outside the confines of our structure, in all ways her word will come after only my own. I assume you can make that clear to the rest of our organization?"

"Of course, my Lord," Livius answered, his face only betraying the slightest tick of surprise.

"Dinner party etiquette will be sufficient," Tom stated. "That being said, there is business to discuss. Is all well in the office of the Minister?"

Livius nodded. "Malfoy reports that Ignatius stays loyal to our cause as ever."

"As is to be expected," Tom said with a bored expression as he ran a hand through his hair. "However, before we move forward with the more obvious political plans, contingencies must be made to retain any power gained."

"Contingencies?" Hermione asked with a distinctly suspicious narrowing of her eyes. He bit back his smirk. That suspicion was well earned.

"Oh yes, Gaza," Tom confirmed with a heart-melting grin. "Contingencies."

Livius's eyes widened once more before he cleared his throat. "Such as?"

Without breaking Hermione's gaze, he flicked his wrist, bringing some of the papers from his desk soaring into his hands. He finally looked away to glance at the parchment he was fingering.

"Power, especially that won by the whims of the populace, is difficult to maintain. After the current Minister meets with her unfortunate accident, that position will go to our puppet," Tom explained. "When his favor dies down, the power will have to be maintained through other means, and I intend on having several layers of plans to ensure it stays firmly in my grasp."

Hermione sat up, alarm evident in her eyes. "Surely you can't mean to murder the current Minister? Wilhelmina Tuft has been an excellent leader and has brought peace and prosperity during her time in office."

Livius glanced at Tom, his eyebrows raised as he got his first real glimpse at the morals of his new Lady. He supposed that without his follower's understanding of her as a seer, she would seem a strange choice. Still, no one would ever question her position aloud. They knew better than to question their Lord.

"She's weak," Tom explained with barely concealed exasperation. "Harmony and rainbows are all well and good, but there has been no growth. Without challenge, we as a country grow stagnant. Magical Britain has been allowed to grow fat and happy while muggle society continues to grow and threaten our existence as they push further and further into the realms we have claimed as our own. You know this is the party position, Deliciae. You are well aware of what you signed up for, including a political coup."

Hermione swallowed heavily and released a breath, nodding slightly even as her face paled. "Yes, I- I suppose I did."

She paused, before visibly steeling herself and meeting his eyes once more. "You mentioned contingencies? A coup d'état requires military takeover and force. I assume that is what you're referring to."

Tom concealed a smile. There it was, his devotion entreaty working at her, as well as the contract they had put together for the bonding. Delicious.

"Yes," he confirmed, flicking his fingers between Livius and the wet bar. The man immediately stood and returned shortly with three glasses of fire whiskey which he handed out to all present parties. "Bastien continues to recruit members of the Aurors from within, but their support is not enough. While the backing of the official police force is crucial, we need additional muscle to secure a new political system. Once the people realize that magical Britain is no longer a democracy, dissension is to be expected and will need to be dealt with swiftly on a broader basis than the Aurors can cover."

Livius took a sip of his fire whiskey before responding. "And you want these additional forces in place before we take power, just in case the reality of the new political system is revealed too early?"

"Exactly," Tom confirmed, flicking his wand once to duplicate the parchments in his hand and then handing one to Livius and one to his Gaza.

Livius leaned back in his chair, casually studying the papers while Hermione sat up with a straight back, earnestly and diligently perusing his military plans.

A few moments passed before he watched his wife visibly bristle. He suspected which part she found so abhorrent and Tom smiled.

"Really, Tom? Absolutely not."

"Pardon, Gaza?" Tom asked calmly, taking a drink from his tumbler before eying her with what appeared to be mild interest. "Firstly, I suggest you mind that sharp tongue of yours. If you wish to communicate a concern, respectful discourse is always encouraged."

He watched her close her eyes and visibly swallow her rage (although he was sure when it was not an impediment to her goal he would be endowed with the full force of it later) and meet his eyes with banked fury in her own. "Noted," she grit out. "However, an inferi army is not only morally questionable and positively disgusting but hugely inefficient."

Livius leaned forward, glancing at Tom for permission (and receiving a small nod in reply) before addressing Hermione. "I disagree. It's frankly the very definition of efficient. Deceased bodies are by their very nature useless, and yet their use as inferi through necromancy repurposes what has ceased to be helpful into a tool."

Tom watched with amusement while Hermione appeared to swallow back bile, but continued on determinedly none-the-less.

"While I concede that point," she said slowly, "Inferi are logically a poor choice of army. They can only be programmed to meet one, simple command. If the creator changes his or her mind or deems a new strategy to be essential, the inferi become at best useless and at worse work in opposition to the new plans."

"They have the benefit of being utterly terrifying to any who stand up against them," Livius pointed out.

"Yes, but at what cost?" Hermione countered. "They... degrade over time and are easily vanquished with fire. Even if you remove all moral qualms, and I recognize that within the Death Eaters you certainly don't consider those a valid concern, I still maintain they are inefficient."

"So," Tom queried, curious how she could reconcile that troublesome morality with her argument. "If I insist on having a completely disposable force in addition to my other potential armies, you suggest I use sentient and living beings that have simply been designated for the suicide branch rather than risk inefficiency?"

"Not necessary," She stated firmly, fiddling nervously with the emerald around her neck. "I suggest Golems."

Livius and Tom exchanged a look while Tom allowed his mind to whirl off with the potential drawbacks and benefits of replacing inferi with golems. Although sanctity of life was certainly not a concept that entered into his calculations, no one wanted to be part of an organization that was willing to sacrifice large groups of its followers in order to achieve its goals.

Individual martyrs would be leveraged into heroes and used as motivational tools; utilizing people as cannon fodder only discouraged membership.

The need for a hugely disposable police force in case of certain kinds of potential resistance was clearly necessary, but Tom had admittedly been enamored with the absolute fear an army of the undead would inspire. If one removed that benefit, golems were an intriguing alternative. They were constructed from clay and earth, and therefore more difficult to destroy. They did not deteriorate over time. And perhaps most tempting, they could be programmed with more complex orders. While they had no will outside of their maker's, they were capable of following directions that were contingent instead of only following one path.

For example, an inferi could only follow a simple "kill if disturbed." With a golem, one could add "kill if disturbed, unless..." That was certainly a huge boon.

Tom glanced at Hermione as she anxiously awaited his verdict. He smiled slightly as he considered how her considerable brain was now his to harness, his to own, his to work with and through. And yet, despite all of the many bonuses to replacing inferi with golems, she was undoubtedly meeting her goals as well. The dead would not be disturbed and their remains would be respected, while sanctity of life for a broad group of people would be guaranteed.

Still his crown jewel, and the best acquisition Tom Riddle had ever made.

"Well played, Little Gaza," he murmured.

 **AN: This chapter was getting far too long, so I made a decision to cut the chapter in half. Next chapter will be a continuation of the meeting as well as another full staff Death Eater meeting, but a very different one from the formal meeting in chapters 5 and 6. I am really excited for it!**


	14. Festivities

_Tom glanced at Hermione as she anxiously awaited his verdict. He smiled slightly as he considered how her considerable brain was now his to harness, his to own, his to work with and through. And yet, despite all of the many bonuses to replacing_ _inferi_ _with golems, she was undoubtedly meeting her goals as well. The dead would not be disturbed and_ _their remains would be respected, while sanctity of life for a broad group of people would be guaranteed._

 _Still his crown_ _jewel, and the best_ _acquisition_ _Tom Riddle had ever made._

 _"Well played, Little Gaza," he murmured._

* * *

Hearing Tom's acquiescence to her arguments caused Hermione's face to split into a small and shaky grin. Of course, she was very pleased that he was willing to listen to some semblance of reason. If she could successfully sway him entirely towards golems instead of inferi, she could have already effected change in the running of his organization in a very real way.

Why then, she wondered, did her sweet success still leave her tongue just a little bitter?

Although, she already knew the answer to that question, didn't she? It was because regardless of whatever goals she was realizing during the course of this meeting, she was also fighting the very real craving to plant herself on the Dark Lord's lap and purr just to feel his fingers run along her spine.

She had threatened to gut him with her own entreaties but already his were accomplishing the opposite. This need was a compulsion, working on her every nerve to crave the touch of him. It was abhorrent, really, and she knew that logically speaking, this was manifesting because she had been too stubborn earlier to allow herself to soak in the contact he had offered. If only he weren't so infuriatingly pleased with himself when he offered such!

This was a problem, a disorder in her body, which _he_ had created and he had looked positively smug about her need for him! He broke her and then he reveled in it and that made her mad enough to spit nails and curses until he bled all over his perfectly pressed slacks. Not that she would be capable of such, what with the devotion entreaty beating at her as well.

'Bleeding is not what would be best for him, after all,' she thought sourly.

When she had fled from the sight of Livius and Tom in her personal study, she had retreated to the bedchamber they shared to attempt to get a handle of the different emotions and compulsions the bond had created. Surely there had to be a way to lessen the effects of them? Her first thought was to utilize additional occlumency shields but that turned out to be no help and she wasn't entirely surprised. After all, Aeternum Adstringo worked on a soul level, not a mental one. But what, exactly, could one do to shield their very soul?

Nothing. The answer to that question was absolutely nothing, barring an additional and contradictory binding, and layering bonds like that came with unpredictable complications.

Livius cleared his throat and Hermione realized both she and Tom had been sitting silent for far too long in the middle of a business meeting. She blushed.

"So then," Hermione ventured, glancing back down at the parchment she held in hand. "The rest of this seems fairly sound theoretically, although I do believe relations with the giants will be a bit more difficult than securing the support of the vampires and werewolves."

Tom blinked, clearly forcing his mind back on task as he met her gaze. "Naturally," he agreed. "Vampires and Werewolves are half-humans and therefore seek many of the same rights and privileges all human beings hunger for. Giants, on the other hand, are nothing of the sort. None-the-less, they must be won."

Livius ran a hand through his hair. "Tom, who exactly do you intend on providing with the details of your recruiting pool for these armies?" He asked uneasily. "Some of your inner circle would be... displeased to see your criteria."

Tom grinned maliciously. "Oh? You do not suppose that Abraxas or Orion would be thrilled to welcome half-breeds into our ranks?"

Livius swallowed and averted his eyes. "No, my Lord. They would not."

"Clearly," Tom said with a smirk. "Allow me to enlighten you. The full scope of my plans is not for public consumption; in fact, not even to be revealed to my inner circle in its entirety. I am splitting them into teams to work on those things which will most assuredly suit their unique talents, as well as to remove them from any understanding of necessary stepping stones that they, as individuals, may find distasteful. I'd rather not have to deal with the inconvenience of murdering and replacing followers if they were to grow defiant because of ridiculous personal bias. The whole picture, as it were, will stay betwixt the three souls in this room."

"Now that I've secured my seer, we have a huge boon to remove previous obstacles and reasons to proceed more cautiously." Tom's eyes flitted to Hermione and he offered her a knickers-melting smile that she valiantly strove to ignore. "The time has come to begin in earnest, Livius. I expect each of my Death Eaters to rise to the occasion."

Livius bowed his head. "Of course, My Lord."

Tom flicked his fingers dismissively and whispered a charm under his breath that caused the parchment in both her and Livius's hands to flair momentarily as each of Tom's minions were listed. As he spoke, the papers changed to reflect his explanations and Hermione had to forcefully bite back the curiosity that demanded she find out immediately what, precisely, that handy bit of magic was.

"Moving forward, we will be focusing on three main objectives," Tom explained, staring intently at his audience. The look in his eyes, like that of a snake who was finally ready to devour a long-anticipated mouse, forced Hermione to repress a shiver. "Firstly, Malfoy and Rosier will continue with their work securing the ministry. Abraxas will remain as Ignatius Tuft's handler and Bastien will work to secure us more Aurors."

"The second grouping," he continued while Hermione watched her parchment change to reflect his words, "will consist of Avery and the Black brothers. They will be working towards securing Hogwarts and, in doing so, the minds of the upcoming youth. This will require a great deal of... _charisma_ , as well as control of the board, which is why I am setting Orion and Cygnus to the task. Where those fail, fear may be required, which is why Corvus has been placed there."

Hermione opened her mouth to immediately protest Corvus Avery being allowed anywhere _near_ her precious alma mater but Tom cut her off with a dark look that clearly demanded she not interrupt. She narrowed her eyes but decided to allow the subject to rest for the moment, if only to give herself time to shore up proper arguments as to why the man was not suited to the position. Grimly, she noted that 'because sadistic psychopaths should not be allowed to meddle in the affairs of children' was not a point Tom was likely to lend any credence.

"Lastly, Dolohov, Lestrange, and Mulciber will work to secure the aide of my coveted police forces," Tom said, taking a sip of his fire whiskey before continuing. "Antonin and Rad are the most, shall we say, 'open-minded' of my Death Eaters and Thad is unconcerned with the details of much of anything so long as there is an opportunity for him to get bloody. There is bound to be a few such instances when we reach out to minority groups."

Livius bit his lip and seemed to be considering the placements before he nodded and helped himself to a drink of his own glass. "Very well, Tom. I'll see it done."

"Yes, you will," Tom stated flatly, moving to stand as he vanished his fire whiskey. "I believe another dinner party is in order to assign roles in an official capacity, however, and touch base with all of my-" he paused, shooting Hermione a wicked smirk, '-lackeys, as my lovely wife refers to them."

Livius, she noted, seemed to be swallowing a smile as he looked at her from his place behind her husband's back and winked. "But My Lord, surely you haven't forgotten that we already have a gathering planned for next weekend?"

Hermione watched with interest as in a rare moment of unguarded emotion, Tom's eyes flashed with something similar to horror as his head rolled back on his shoulders and he groaned.

"What gathering?" she asked curiously.

Livius smiled. "Rabastan Lestrange is turning 8 years old, and Rad and Angua are having a birthday party."

* * *

Hermione was aware that her mouth was gaping open in a way that would likely have Elspeth and Walburga whispering about her 'atrocious manners' but she could not find it in her to care as she watched the scene unfold in front of her. They had arrived at Lestrange Manor and been led into a large ballroom by a fleet of house elves before walking in on a combination of chaotic childhood shenanigans and exasperated, restrained adulthood.

The ballroom itself was decked out entirely in garlands of fall leaves, pine cones, and apples, with weavings of sage and sandalwood forming the ropes on which they hung. On one side of the room sat tables covered in forest green table cloths with staghorn and candle centerpieces, bursting with pitchers of cider and butterbeer. There were serving plates full of honey cakes and lemon cream cookies for everyone to snack on. Hermione watched with barely concealed amusement as Druella Black (who she had failed to notice at the dinner was evidently heavily pregnant) attempted to hand a little girl with wild, black curls a cup of butterbeer only to have the child jump excitedly and spill the liquid down the woman's silk party robes. The woman shrieked and began to berate the little girl (which stalled Hermione's amusement entirely) before Cygnus Black swooped in from the side, scooping the small child under his arm while simultaneously spelling the mess away and sending her running off to the other children.

This brought Hermione's attention to the other side of the room where a number of little beings were roaming around a play area that had been set up on what looked to be a bed of conjured grass. The vast majority of the children were tiny, probably around 2 or 3, although the little girl who had spilled her drink looked to be slightly older and there were two older children (maybe 7 or 8 years of age) off a bit by themselves. All of them had ribbons attached to their wrists that streamed behind them when they walked (or toddled, as the case may be) and most of them were happily plucking candies from flowers that had been charmed to grow along the field. The older children, one of whom must have been Rabastan Lestrange, were bobbing for apples behind an age line in an oddly dignified fashion while Angua and Calliope looked on from a little bit away.

The men were seated primarily around two separate tables and ignoring the children entirely, although they did immediately rise and move towards herself and Tom as they entered the room. Tom led her in their direction with a hand at the small of her back that caused her spine to tingle and she couldn't help but drag her feet ever so slightly to get maximum contact, even if it was diminished through the fabric of her dress.

The past week and a half since the official meeting with Livius had been spent adjusting to living with the Dark Lord and while he turned out to be a surprisingly easy roommate, coming to terms with their entreaties and bonding was proving more difficult. Most mornings Tom was up before dawn, devoting some time to his morning ablutions before joining her for breakfast and tea (or coffee), prepared by Gilmy. They split the daily prophet and vaguely discussed current events before he left for either work at Borgin and Burke's or he retreated to his study to organize his plans further.

On the days he stayed home, Hermione, with his invitation, would join him in his study and research while he worked, occasionally answering questions regarding the future and allowing him to use her as a sounding board for his ideas. It surprised her, based on how dismissive he could be, that he would bother to ask her opinion about much of anything, but he did none-the-less and she craved the days she was able to utilize her vast intellect to hone his less distasteful plans. Since the main goal was currently the political coup on the ministry, Hermione found their immediate goals aligned and spent the majority of her time while he worked, whether in the house or out, working to compile information to aid them in securing positive relations with vampires, werewolves, and giants.

While she enjoyed her time, days where he worked outside the home had brought with them the knowledge of how long Hermione could function without Tom's presence before the need entreaty began to make her feel ill and she was less than pleased with the results. When he was home, they had become accustomed to holding hands or leaning against one another while settled on the couch so that the entreaty itself never really began to manifest symptoms, aside from her urge to be in constant contact, which she chose to ignore. When he left, however, she only had approximately 6 hours before a headache began as the first sign of an emerging issue. There were 10 hours before additional dizziness and weakness began, and 12 to 14 hours before unconsciousness threatened her.

After her first bout of need induced illness, Tom had charmed her emerald necklace to act as a locator and summoning object so he could apparate directly to her if she began to feel ill. While he could choose to ignore the summoning, all she needed to do was tap her wand on the emerald itself and say his name aloud, and regardless of knowing her location, the jewel and charm would call him to her. In addition, if she were to lose consciousness, the necklace would send a much stronger pulse outwards and alert him to her need immediately.

She hated it. It made her engagement present feel even more like a collar than he had already suggested it was and yet, there really was nothing for it. Her entreaty induced illness made it necessary and she supposed that she should be thankful he had taken steps to keep her from suffering. It had taken her two days to muster up the courage to thank him for at least _attempting_ to fix his appalling mistake. In response, Tom had simply continued with his reading, casually dismissing her while murmuring about how he always took care of what was his, and she felt her gratitude wither in the face of his continued dismissal of her autonomy.

In good news, her rage and hurt at his attitude _had_ caused her own empathy entreaty to spike and he had spent the next hour growling at her for the pain in his chest. _That_ had been satisfying.

Nighttime was when she got the biggest dose of her 'medicine,' as he had called it, as she spent the entire night with Tom's body pressed against the length of hers. He had not left her at night again and while during the day he would occasionally behave ever so superior about the way she unconsciously moved to caress his body, at night he was asleep and silent and unaware and she could simply revel. It was glorious and made her feel dirtier than sin.

She was enthralled by the touch of Lord Voldemort. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

It just- it felt so _good_ to touch him and be touched by him! It didn't even have to be sexual. In fact, despite Tom's obvious willingness to engage in those sorts of activities, Hermione had willfully denied any interest in such since that first night because the need for touch was bad enough without adding in lusting for the man. She could feel the walls already crumbling and while she knew and Tom knew it was simply a matter of time before she stopped fighting a losing battle, Hermione simply wasn't ready yet to give in to the way her body and soul craved his every hour of every day. When she did surrender, it would give him more power than anyone had ever possessed over her and he was quite possibly the person she should trust the least with it.

Worse was that thanks to the bond, her soul was crying out that she _could_ and _should_ trust him and that just made her feel all the more stubborn about the whole thing.

Radolphous moved in front of the rest of the men as they approached and offered a nod to Tom before reaching for Hermione's hand and kissing her knuckles lightly.

"My Lord, my Lady, welcome to my home and to my son's party," he greeted. "We are honored you could join us to celebrate Rabastan's birthday."

Tom grimaced beside her but Hermione smiled warmly, glancing over to where the children continued to play, oblivious to the power games that were beginning in the background.

"We are, of course, thrilled to be here," she told him, clasping his hand in her own before stepping back and linking her arm with Tom's. "Lord Riddle here was simply delighted at the idea of a party for a little one."

Most of the Death Eaters seemed to tense unconsciously, though she noted Livius coughed out a repressed laugh and Orion bit his lip to hold in a chuckle.

Tom looked down at her with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Indeed," he stated coldly, shifting his gaze to Radolphous who was still standing in front of them and watching the interplay. "Children are-"

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a shriek from the play area followed by a streak of black as the little girl with the wild black curls ran full tilt in their direction. Druella stiffened visibly and yelled for her husband who attempted to grab the child before she reached her destination. Ducking agilely, the girl dodged her father's grasping arms and slammed into Tom's waist, knocking him off balance with a grunt as she clung to him.

"Lord Riddle!" she shrieked, looking up at him with adoring eyes as Hermione watched on with glee. Tom held his arms up out of reach as if he'd be infected if he touched the child and looked down at her with annoyance.

"I'm so glad you're here!" she continued, unaffected by his lack of enthusiasm as she rubbed her face against his robes. "I asked Papa if you'd be here and he said of course you would, OF COURSE YOU WOULD, but I was still so afraid you wouldn't be and here you are and that's just exactly what I wanted to happen! It's a party you see, and I have this candy, would you maybe like some candy? Because I have sugar quills and a few cho-"

Druella, who had approached them quickly from the side immediately pushed her hand into her daughter's curls and grasped the back of her neck firmly, attempting to yank the child away.

"Bellatrix Alexia Black, release him at once!" She snarled at her daughter. She opened her mouth to continue berating her, but Hermione heard none of it over the ringing in her ears as she stared slack-jawed at the girl who would be the woman who tortured and maimed her.

She was...

The girl was...

Innocent. Bellatrix Black was cute and innocent and hanging onto the Dark Lord with her skinny arms for everything she was worth. Her eyes were clear and light and it was incredibly difficult to imagine the insane adult the little girl would turn out to be. Unlike Dolohov, who was already grown and therefore easy to see as a threat, this child was not one and it was impossible to reconcile her memory with the scene in front of her.

Perhaps feeling the weight of Hermione's gaze, the girl turned her eyes and studied her carefully before she turned back to Tom. Druella finally managed to detach Bellatrix, but the child refused to be moved too far, planting her feet as she looked at Hermione once again.

"Who's that?" Bellatrix demanded suspiciously.

Cygnus, who had been hovering somewhat uselessly, moved forward and placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "That's the new Lady Riddle, little one."

Bellatrix looked at her once more, aghast, before her eyes flared with little, child-like anger and she moved to stomp a foot. "No way! I'M going to marry our Lord and-"

Druella slapped a hand over her small mouth and finally managed to drag her away while the rest of the Death Eaters looked on with amusement.

"You most certainly will not!" Druella chastised her daughter as she forcibly removed her from the adults. "You will marry Rodolphous Lestrange, as we have told you since the cradle, and you will NOT embarrass yourself in front of Lord Riddle again; am I perfectly understood?!"

Hermione blinked and glanced over at Tom who looked distinctly as if he had smelled something foul.

"Children," he grimaced, waving off Cygnus's apologies as he ignored the rest of his followers and drug her towards one of the tables. He sat down, looking strangely rumpled, as the Death Eaters took the hint to provide him with a moment of privacy and retreated back to their respective areas of the room. Tom called a house elf towards him, ordered a fire whiskey, and then sat back whilst running a hand through his hair.

Hermione watched him with a small smile on her face before he finally looked at her and quickly smoothed his face back into a blank look.

"Yes, Gaza?" he inquired.

"Lord Voldemort is intimidated by a grabby little girl?" She teased him, pouring herself a glass of butterbeer and watching the children continue to play.

His eyes flashed momentarily before he took a deep breath and looked at her coldly. "I am not intimidated by anything, as you well know. I do, however, have an overwhelming dislike for all things useless and loud, of which children are both."

As if to prove his point, across the room, one little boy pulled another's hair and they both began to cry. A pair of house elves moved forward quickly to soothe them.

"There is a muggle saying," Hermione mused, swirling her drink as she crossed her legs, "that states, 'Children are the future'."

Tom looked unamused. "Children, while unpalatable, serve a purpose. They are for heirs and legacies," he explained calmly, taking the fire whiskey from the elf who had returned with it. "As I intend to live forever, I find neither to be necessary."

He paused with his glass partway to his lips, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before he tilted his head ever so slightly in consideration. "Forgive me, Deliciae. I do not believe we have ever discussed the subject of children before. Did you yearn for little ones?"

Hermione choked on her butterbeer.

After she managed to hack and cough the liquid back out of the wrong pipe, she looked at him incredulously.

"Is that a jape?!" she asked incredulously, hand pressed to her chest as she stared at him. "I married _you_ , of all people! You cannot possibly think I would ever subject a child to the bloody Dark Lord as a parental figure."

Tom blinked before his eyes narrowed slightly. "Careful, little wife. Your tongue is getting away with you again."

"It most certainly is not," she told him firmly. "I meant _exactly_ what I said. You are most definitely not father material, and frankly, it's a moot point anyway. I am not what one would call 'maternal' and due to substantial exposure to dark curse magic, I couldn't have children even if I wanted them."

His eyebrows went up in surprise as he watched her. "What sort of dark curse magic?"

Hermione's eyes flickered over unconsciously to where Bellatrix was sulking at a table with her mother before moving to Dolohov. "Sustained cruciatus primarily, although I was hit with a specially crafted dark curse when I was younger as well."

"Were you?" Tom inquired calmly, eyes never leaving her face as he spoke. "It is interesting, you see, because the scar you have which intersects your abdomen reminds me very much of one of Antonin's specialties."

"Does it?" She answered noncommittally.

"Indeed," he continued, "Although, to my knowledge, no one had ever survived one of Antonin's curses. They tend to be rather nasty and consistently fatal."

Hermione hummed as she sipped more of her drink, trying desperately to hide the shaking of her hands as memories flashed before her open eyes and her leg began to bounce up and down. Tom stilled for a moment, bringing his hand to his chest, before sighing and reaching a hand out to grasp her free one. Her body immediately relaxed and her vision cleared.

To be so easily soothed by the presence of the Dark Lord was almost worse than the flashback and anxiety.

Almost.


	15. Offerings and Oaths

**AN: Are you ever writing something and you have a plan for how a conversation between two characters is going to go and then they just seem to take off without you, leaving nothing of the original plan left? So that happened to me here.**

Dinner was announced promptly at half-past six, accompanied by a controlled scrambling to collect small children and leave behind the ballroom in favor of a medium-sized, formal dining room. The usual long table was present, though a smaller round table had been added towards the end of the room for the younger children.

As Tom led Hermione into the room with his fingertips resting on the small of her back, she took a moment to curiously study the layout of the room and the seating arrangements. While at Hogwarts, one of the things she had done was raid the personal rooms, common rooms, and offices for anything useful to her and commandeer it for her own purposes. It was how she had secured her hair combs and her book on hair charms, and it was also how she had learned all she knew about pureblood comportment.

While finding the elusive entrance to Slytherin House's living space had taken time and effort (and breaking into it even more so,) she had managed. For her stubbornness, she had been rewarded a treasure trove of information on the subject of all things pureblooded through the personal study journals of the Greengrass Family. It seemed that while most pureblood customs and habits were coveted family secrets, the Greengrasses were determined to have the very best of ladies and therefore supplied, through the maternal line, a tome of rules and customs to be passed and updated through the generations. It was closely guarded with blood magic, of course, and could only be opened by a blood relative in theory, however...

Well. 'Blood magic' was really more 'genetic material' magic than anything else (a concept somewhat lost on anyone not passingly interested in the science of muggles) and if Hermione employed a hugely dubious, very grey spell in order to alter a bit of her own blood and combine it with DNA extracted from a hairbrush-

It wasn't as if anyone was hurt by it, nor was there anyone around to scold her for it.

Somewhat illegal means aside, she managed to access the information on how, precisely, to comport herself as the perfect, pureblood princess. However, this was the first time she had truly been able to see some of the group customs play out and she found herself morbidly fascinated as she was seated at the table that had been charmed to seat the exact number of occupants without any empty spaces. The same could not be said for the smaller table, and that was deliberate.

The 'adult' table, as it were, was set up in exactly the same way as the dinner party had been with the exception that they were now joined by Rabastan Lestrange, as the prince of the day, at the head opposite Tom and his betrothed, Evadne Nott. Evadne's chair was draped with the heraldry of the Lestrange house, and in a move that Hermione was unsure whether she found amusing or disturbing, the same could be said of the seats at the children's rounded table.

One of the children giggled happily at a house elf from across the room and she settled on disturbing.

Tom had detailed information for each of his Death Eaters (information he compiled himself as a way to explore weaknesses and strengths) that he fiercely guarded against prying eyes. However, he had made an exemption for Hermione. In truth, he had encouraged her to study his research and learn his lackeys as well as he himself understood them so that she would never find herself at a disadvantage. Hermione was never one to turn down information that could be useful, so she had learned their family trees and who was married to whom, who was betrothed to whom, and now she watched it play out in toddlers.

Cradle betrothals were the done thing in some pureblood circles, even more so in the Death Eaters. They were keeping political power close and in the families and nothing like free will or sexual preferences were going to change that. Bellatrix Black sat stiff-backed and still clearly upset at the round table next to a visibly younger Rolophous Lestrange, her chair marking her as his future bride. As the manor in which they currently sat to eat was that of his ancestral family, he sat as the rather important de-facto head of the table at the stern age of two.

The hierarchy at the adult's table was mirrored at the children's as beside Rodolphous, Mortlake William "Wilkes" Nott, aged three, was present. The seat to his immediate right was unfilled. Once, it would have held Alys Rosier, but she had died in an unfortunate case of cradle death, leaving the subject of his future wife an open one. Evan Rosier, still unattached at two, sat next to the empty seat that honored his sister until another came to take her place.

To Rodolphous's left sat Lucius Malfoy, a beautiful child if Hermione had ever seen one, though the chair to his immediate left was also empty and she was not sure why. Understanding dawned on her as she unconsciously flicked a glance towards Druella Black's swollen belly where Narcissa was as of yet unborn. The poor girl hadn't even breathed her first before being sold off.

Lastly, beside the empty chair, Corvus Avery Jr was seated with Andromeda Black to his left, her chair draped in the Avery heraldry. Hermione bit back a smirk at the realization that at least one of these arranged marriages was never going to happen; Andromeda Black was going to get away from all of this awfulness and marry for love. An immediate affection for the pretty little brunette child bloomed in her chest.

According to the files, Antonin Dolohov was unmarried and therefore without heirs, while Thaddeus Mulciber had been widowed and lost his infant daughter in one fell swoop during childbirth. Hermione had bit back at growl when she had read that. The wizarding world was still woefully behind on things such as medicine and the concepts of c-sections and other interventions to save a woman's life while she brought forth a new one were completely unknown. She wondered if Mulciber's wife could have been saved if hatred for muggles could have just been set aside long enough to benefit from their knowledge.

For now, she brought her attention back to the soup that had appeared in front of her and listened to Rad and Livius argue about an obviously bad call (if the Nott Patriarch was to be believed) that occurred in a very important Quidditch match just last night. If she had hoped that being around evil and dark magic would at least bring her a reprieve from having to listen to debates that involved bloody Chaser techniques and point spreads, she was sadly disappointed.

Dinner passed in five courses with a rather tasty pork roast and savoury apple and herb pudding being, in Hermione's opinion, featured as the highlights and as opposed to the last dinner party with these people she attended, everything was rather cordial. Perhaps it was the presence of children in the room or perhaps it was just rude to try to climb one's way up the pecking order at a birthday party, but the conversation stayed to tame, boring subjects no one could really object to. Abraxas, seated to her left, largely ignored her and Livius across from her was far too caught up in his sports talk. Calliope caught her eye a few times to roll her eyes at her husband but did not comment and Tom, to her right, simply watched the interactions occurring around the table like a king observing his lesser subjects. Which, of course, was precisely what he was doing. Nevertheless, she was left to eat her dinner in peace, which is honestly the very best outcome she could hope for when surrounded by Tom's many loyal followers.

The main course ended and Rad stood up with a proud smile as he moved towards Rabastan. For his part, the boy sat up straighter in his chair, restrained excitement fighting with forced decorum warring on his face. Silence fell on the room as Rad reached his son's side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Rabastan, as is tradition on this remembrance of your birth," Rad began, gazing seriously at the child, "it falls to you to open the dessert course with a fire manifestation."

Angua also stood, moving towards Evadne's chair, before she took the little girl by the hand and together they solemnly left the room.

Rad did not acknowledge their departure but kept his focus on his son. "Are you prepared to bring your desires into reality?" He asked.

Rabastan nodded gravely, the solemnity of his face at fierce odds with his young age. "I accept this honor willingly and humbly," he answered by rote.

At his words, Angua and Evadne returned to the room baring together a large cake topped with golden-colored icing and forest green piping that matched the decorations. The pastry was placed in front of Rabastan and Hermione could not help but begin to lean forward over the table, fascinated to watch the magic at work that up until now she had only read about. While she had of course been to magical birthdays, only traditional purebloods took the time to harvest the sympathetic magic of a birthday wish. The cake had to be baked just so, the candle carved with the proper runes, and it was all quite a bit more power than typical adults were willing to hand over to their children.

'Of course, scions of Sacred 28 houses could always be trusted with magical power, regardless of whether or not they were still being troubled by nappies,' Hermione thought wryly as she suppressed an eye roll.

Tom placed a restraining hand on her thigh and she caught herself just in time from showing far too much interest in the proceedings. Although it was never explicitly stated one way or another, all the Death Eaters surely assumed her blood status was pureblood and being enthralled by what was old hat to them would undoubtedly tip some of them off to her muggleborn origins. Still, it _was_ a fascinating custom and while she forced herself to remain outwardly bland, her entire focus and magic remained firmly on the small ritual occurring at the other end of the table.

If Tom's small chuckle was any indication, he could feel her magic and knew _exactly_ where her focus was, but Hermione ignored him.

Radalphous pulled the special candle from the pocket of his robes and placed it atop the cake, lighting it with a murmured spell as Rabastan lost a bit of his composure and leaned forward eagerly in his seat.

Rad placed a restraining hand on his son's shoulder until the boy glanced up at him, before reminding him softly, "Choose carefully, young man."

Rabastan nodded and fixed his eyes back on the cake, the flame of the candle moving eerily as silence filled the room. He closed his eyes, his small face scrunching up in concentration before he opened them once more and blew. The flame surged upwards and glowed a bright blue for a moment before bending to his will and sputtering from existence. A small surge of magic flowed outward and caressed the skin of the occupants of the room before retreating out into the world.

Rad nodded with a large smile. "Well done, son. Well done, indeed."

Rabastan preened under the praise, flushing lightly as he watched a house elf scurry forward and begin to cut the cake.

Hermione settled back in her chair, watching as the first slice of the pastry floated down to Tom and then herself, before the rest of the party was served. She absentmindedly stroked her fingers across the hand still planted on her thigh, ignoring the smug tilt to her husband's lips as she did so, before taking a small bite of the decadent cake and chewing it slowly.

That had been beautiful. It was unbelievable how different the surge of Rabastan Lestrange's magic at age 8 was from anything she had experienced when up against the man in his adulthood. Truthfully, she had only had cause to duel against Rabastan once, during the chaos of the final battle at that, but it didn't take much to get a sense of the way someone's magic felt. It was natural that magic matured and changed as one grew but the core 'taste,' as it was, stayed the same. Based on her limited experience with Lestrange magic (Bellatrix notwithstanding, as she had always retained much of her Black heritage,) she had assumed the basis of it was murky and dark to the core. Having been around Rad and now feeling Rabastan's childhood magic magnified by the power of the ritual, however, she was struck by how very different it was at its most basic level than what she had expected. It was certainly not light, but rather a grey mixture. Was it possible, probable even, that the time spent in Azkaban with dementors could alter magic's very essence?

That was a disturbing idea.

After dessert, the entire group made their way back into the ballroom where a throne of sorts had been set up on the conjured grass. Rabastan seated himself there while three house elves emerged with a large offering chest to set at his right side as his father sat in a chair at his left.

A line was formed, with Tom and Hermione leading the group, as each family brought forth their gifts for the young scion. The Riddles were greeted with the sight of young Rabastan standing at their approach and sweeping into a low, meticulous bow.

"My Lord and Lady," he said formally, though the tremor beneath his voice showed he was nervous. The awkwardness allowed her to forget who he would (could) grow to be and she allowed herself to see only a little boy who was turning 8 years old, not a future Death Eater.

Tom nodded dismissively and produced their own offering from his coat, unshrinking the package that Hermione had wrapped herself in bright, shining paper. Ignoring her husband's less than appropriate greeting for a child, she took a step forward and urged Rabastan back to standing by the shoulders before clasping his hands in her own.

"Happy Birthday, young Lord Lestrange," she said warmly, reaching behind her for the gift blindly. When nothing met her hand, she turned to her husband and gave him an exasperated look which he met with his own fond smirk.

He took a step towards the boy, his face smoothing away into blankness as he handed the package over himself.

Rabastan, released from Hermione's grip, took the package and carefully opened it, revealing a children's potions set, a combination of common and somewhat rare ingredients, and a leather-bound journal to record his findings. His eyes widened as he studied a gift not traditionally given until ten before he glanced back at his father, who smiled encouragingly.

Turning back to the Riddles, he set the new gifts in his offering chest and bowed once more. "Thank you, My Lord and Lady," he stammered slightly.

"I expect you to use them," Tom said with cold regard. "You are your father's son, after all, so you should be more than capable of this advanced study."

Hermione bit back a sigh at Tom's poor understanding of children and smiled once more at the boy. "Also," she added, "you can make crystals and slime."

Radalphous chuckled under his breath as Tom sent her a warning look that she did not acknowledge. Rabastan nodded again as she took the Dark Lord's hand and led him off to the side, a bit away from everyone so that the rest of the party could present their own presents and they could speak freely.

Tom's displeasure, though mild, was perfectly clear as he pulled her into his side and murmured into her hair.

"Slime, little Gaza?"

"He's 8, Tom," She answered quietly, watching as Evadne Nott presented her own gift of a hand-woven basket filled with specially selected fresh grapes for 'a sweet life.' "What precisely do you think he's going to be doing with that, brewing a Draught of Living Death?"

His fingers tightened on her waist, but he gave no other outward sign of his annoyance.

"What I expect is for the child to learn to be useful and intelligent," he murmured against the shell of her ear, lips quirking up slightly as she unconsciously melted into him at the sensation. "He was promised to me at birth, as most firstborns are. He's to be one of mine, yes?"

Hermione frowned momentarily, considering not answering to avoid the honesty entreaty, but nodded.

"Then it is important," Tom continued, eying the pressed flowers that some of the toddler girls were presenting with barely curbed disdain, "that he be clever and well educated. What will this particular follower do for me, Deliciae?"

Once again, she considered not answering, but Tom bit the lobe of her ear lightly in a rather sensual warning and she sighed as she yielded to him. "If everything were to stay the same, which I doubt very much, Rabastan would grow to be an excellent dueler and a master of battle magics. However, as the wars should NOT be occurring this time around, I'm not entirely sure that these specialties will be useful to you, and therefore whether they will be cultivated or not. Also, I'm unsure how Azkaban molded the man I was familiar with."

He made a low, inquiring noise and Hermione quietly explained her musings about the fundamentals of how the dementors may change magic that she had considered during the dessert course.

"That's an interesting theory," Tom purred in her ear, evidently delighted at the implications of the concept in ways she felt herself becoming increasingly wary of. "Although I'd rather not see it applied to my loyal Death Eaters any time in the near future."

The last of the presents were given by Dolohov before the man made his way over to where they were standing and gave a small bow.

"Tom, Lady Riddle," he greeted, straightening quickly and frowning when he noticed how Hermione stiffened. "Might I speak with you, my Lady, in private now that the formal celebrations are ended?"

Hermione swallowed heavily and bit back her immediate negative response as Tom shifted and offered Dolohov a frigid smile. "To what end do you seek this pleasure, Antonin?"

"I have noticed our Lady is uncomfortable in my presence," he answered bluntly. She was surprised to hear that even after however many years in England, the man still spoke with a Russian accent. "I assume she has 'Seen' something to make this so. I wish only to address any concerns she may have."

Tom tilted his head, regarding the man before him, before leaning down and placing a small kiss in front of her ear. "Your choice, little wife," he breathed loud enough only she could hear it.

Steeling herself with a deep breath and offering a small smile, Hermione nodded. "Of course. Let's take in the air on the balcony."

She crossed her arms and walked towards the doors off to the side of the ballroom, assuming correctly that Dolohov would follow her.

The autumn air caused her to tighten her arms before the heat of a warming charm, drenched in Dolohov's signature, washed over her spine and caused her to shiver involuntarily. Distantly, she noted that his magic felt different than when she knew him after his time in Azkaban as well. She turned to him and braced her feet, trying to seem bigger and braver than she felt.

The man said nothing, simply studied her as they stood alone in the cold, less than twenty feet away from other people who might notice if something were to go wrong and yet so very, very far.

"Well?" Hermione prompted, desperate to hide her discomfort and not doing so very well.

"You are terrified of me," Dolohov said, sounding surprised and simultaneously strangely horrified at his realization.

She inhaled sharply and brought forth just an inkling of that Gryffindor courage. She could not be weak; not here, not in this serpent's nest. To be weak here was to be dead, or at a minimum completely dependent on Tom Riddle for protection, which was arguably worse.

"Terrified is a strong word," she stated with as much calm as she could muster. "I would say concerned. Perhaps wary."

She paused and then decided that maybe a reminder of her husband's feelings on the matter of her safety wouldn't hurt her pride too much. "After all, I'd hate to see your unfortunate demise were Tom to deem you any sort of slight threat to my wellbeing."

"I would not hurt you, kotik," Dolohov said gently, extending a hand almost as a peace offering.

Hermione could not hold back her snort of disdain at that. "Oh really?" she said caustically. "And why is that?"

"Honor," he replied immediately. "I do not hurt women or children. We, here, are bad men, but we have our own codes. That is mine."

She laughed a high scratchy sound that contained very little humor. "I doubt the truth of that very much. I have Seen otherwise."

Dolohov swallowed heavily before running his tongue along his front teeth and looking towards the ground. "And I hurt you, kotik?" he asked quietly.

"Do _not_ call me 'kitten,' for if I am kotik, you will be myshka," she began venomously, "And yes, if all were to stay exactly the same, you would hurt me. I will not tell you more than that; I will not explain to you the circumstances nor how you would do so, but you would most certainly hurt me."

Hermione's eyes widened as Antonin Dolohov, a foot taller and five stone heavier than she, hit his knees in front of her.

"You are right, my Lady. I will willingly be myshka, mouseling, to your kitten," he told her, hands on his knees and head bowed as he sat at her mercy. "I do not know what would cause me to ever offer you harm by my hand or wand; I am no traitor. But if something must change to prevent this, then change it must."

Dolohov reached for his wand, slowly, and Hermione had hers out before his hand was anywhere near his holster. She knew, despite the blood rushing in her ears, that he could have had his wand out much quicker so she allowed the movement, ready at any time for the man to lose his composure and curse her. It wasn't logical, but it didn't really matter. Antonin Dolohov was a thing of nightmares, hers specifically, for years after her 5th year and she could not shake the delusion that even though the incident in the Department of Mysteries would never happen, he was somehow back to finish what he started. It didn't make sense, it wasn't pragmatic, but there it was.

The man presented his wand set across his outstretched palms and brought his gaze up to lock with her own.

"In response to charges laid against my integrity, I offer this as recompense," Dolohov stated formally. "By my magic and honor, I will be to Lady Hermione Riddle faithful and true, and love all that she loves, and shun all that she shuns, according to laws of Magic, and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to her; on condition that she keep me as I am willing to deserve when I to her submitted and chose her will."

Hermione's mouth dropped open as the man once again lowered his head and awaited her verdict.

He was offering an ancient oath of allegiance and protection that would make it completely impossible for him to ever harm her. It was old magic, dark magic, and something that would obliterate his free will entirely when it came to the matter of her person. Not only would he be unable to hurt her, he would also be compelled beyond reason to defend her from harm to his own death and detriment.

She licked her lips and forced herself to think this through logically. She could turn her biggest fear amongst the Death Eaters into a weapon, an ally. Finally, in this time period, she could have someone she could truly trust, someone she could truly rely on, because the magic would compel him to be so. Dolohov had obviously lost his mind entirely in prison, because this man of morals and personal honor codes had not existed in her timeline. As an added bonus, once the magic was in place, the nightmares she suffered and the terror she had about the man would likely go away. The bond would settle into her magical core and affect her just as her bond with Tom did and-

Oh, Merlin: Tom. How exactly would he feel about this?

Hermione's head whipped around to stare into the windows where the Dark Lord was clearly watching the scene outside. There could be no mistaking Dolohov's kneeling posture and offered wand. Tom raised a single eyebrow at her, and Hermione shrugged before thinking better of it. A smirk broke across his face and he looked amused and annoyed and calculating all at once before he offered her the slightest of nods of acquiescence and turned away.

She shut her mouth with an audible snap. Tom Riddle had just given her a gift of one of his followers, should she so choose to accept it, and he was not at all the type to share. This would definitely cost her something later and she wasn't entirely sure how unpleasant the price may be.

Hermione looked back at the man still kneeling at her feet and sighed. She had never wanted anything like this from someone, had never been particularly enthralled with the thought of power over another person. It certainly wasn't anything like slavery or mind control, but it was a promise that the Russian would be magically compelled to keep.

"Why are you doing this, Dolohov?" she asked quietly.

He lifted his head once more to look at her. "I told you, kotik," he answered with the air of a man speaking the absolute truth. "Honor. But do not think me entirely selfless. There is also self-preservation, knowledge of what our Lord will do when he finds that I would hurt you."

"I seriously doubt that Tom would punish you for something that you haven't yet done and, frankly, won't do so long as things continue to change."

Dolohov snorted. "Do you truly think that? You are his favorite, kotik, his very own, and the way he looks at you-" He paused as if searching for the words. "The love of a possessive man; 'Better to destroy everything than surrender her.' He would kill me just for inconveniencing you, let alone for truly being a threat, and our Lord has never hesitated to kill what is in his way before."

"Are you quoting 'Lolita' to me?" Hermione asked, amused in spite of this strange, strange situation. "And Tom does not love me, do not make that mistake. 'The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly... If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action.' Tom may seek to own me, but never to love me."

Dolohov tilted his head, still kneeling at her feet, and considered her. "I would not speak so carelessly about what our Lord is and is not capable of. You may find yourself surprised." He seemed to struggle for a moment, clearly wishing to say more, before deciding against it and looking pointedly at his still outstretched hands. "My Lady, will you accept my allegiance and return to me the honor that my future has taken from me?"

She closed her eyes a moment, wondering exactly what the events of this night would reap for her future. This was not, at all, what she expected to be doing at a child's birthday party.

"It is right that those who offer to me unbroken fidelity should be loved and welcomed into the circle of my heart," Hermione replied with the same formality, slashing Dolohov's right ring finger and her own before pressing them together. "And since such and such a faithful one of mine, by the favor of Magic, comes to me with his devotion and his weapons on offer and has seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to me in the manner of old, I accept with gratitude and pride."

A ribbon of blood-red magic flared out around their touching fingers before knotting and dissolving into both party's skin. Antonin Dolohov and Hermione Riddle shivered at the same time as they felt a magic tendril wrap around their individual magical cores and squeeze.

Lady Riddle, wife of Lord Voldemort and true second in command over the Death Eaters, glanced down at the man who had once tried to murder her when she was only 16 years old, now her protector and ally, and allowed herself one moment to imagine how much simpler it would have been if she had just followed through with her original plan and chosen the brave, brave death she had thought awaited her in 1955. It would be over now and another tie to another man she had feared and loathed would not be tightening as sure as she lived. She was drowning in bad men and grey magic and greyer choices and despite the fact that she was seemingly successful in her endeavors, this world just kept getting more and more complicated.

For a single, forlorn beat of her heart, she yearned for it.

 **Antonin Dolohov quotes "Lolita" by Vladimir Nabokov, published in 1955**

 **Hermione Riddle quotes "The Stranger" by Albert Camus, published in 1942**

 **Oath of allegiance and protection loosely based on 10th century England, Form of fealty in the Laws of Alfred, Guthrum, and Edward the Elder, from Thatcher: The Library of Original Sources, Vol. IV: The Early Medieval World**

 **Acceptance of oath loosely based on 7th century Antrusian, Acceptance of fealty, from Roziere: Collection de Formules, No. VIII, Vol. I**


	16. Germination

**AN: Lemons!**

December 1st, 1955 brought with it the first snow of the season. Tom sat in front of a roaring fire in his study at ten o'clock in the morning, enjoying a black coffee while his lips twitched upwards as he considered his current position.

It would not do for Lord Voldemort to be seen doing something as lowly as gloating, but that did not mean that in the privacy of his own rooms he was not doing so.

Every plan and strategy he had compiled over the past decade and a half were moving into place. Ignatious Tuft continued to be malleable to the Death Eater's cause and pushed legislation through to the Wizengamot by manipulating his mother at Tom's whim. He was still sometimes stymied by the woman, but one day soon her time in power would end with her inevitable disposal, and no longer would anything stand between the Dark Lord and his control of the ruling bodies of England.

Orion had secured a place on the Hogwarts Board of Directors in November after a current member met with a fortuitously fatal and untraceable bought of illness, opening up a spot for the charismatic Black to begin influencing the politics at Hogwarts. Cygnus, of course, was still completing his final year at the school and was therefore tasked with the spreading of propaganda and rumors amongst the student body.

Research continued into the best ways to approach his potential police forces, beginning with the vampires. Antonin had expressed some ideas regarding the implementation of an optional Vampire Support Services, similar to the soon-to-be revised Werewolf Support Services in the ministry, and Tom felt this was an idea that held significant promise. The key was coming up with separate solutions for those who wished to feed at will and those who wished to retain an illusion of humanity, a task that could only be accomplished through continued research and interviews to determine what best to barter with.

The subject of research, however, brought thoughts of a specific area of his life that was not going quite as gloriously as the others and Tom grimaced as he smoothed a hand through raven hair before taking another drink of the caffeinated beverage.

Ever since Rabastan Lestrange's birthday party, his Gaza had been strangely withdrawn and somewhat forlorn. One would think his gift in the form of Antonin Dolohov would have been generous enough to at the very least soothe some of her apprehensions and buy him some gratitude, but to his annoyance, that had not been the case.

The decision to allow Antonin to swear his allegiance to Hermione had been made impulsively, but it was not a choice he regretted. By that time, he had already begun to consider the necessity of finding a guard of sorts for her, as it was only a matter of time before she insisted on venturing forth from Nidum Serpentis in the pursuit of a book or some form of entertainment. Tom was far too busy to indulge her whims whenever she saw fit and his little wife was far too important to allow to wander without proper supervision.

A formidable witch she may be, but she was not incapable of fault, and he would not risk her.

Antonin had offered up the perfect solution; one of his Death Eaters, an original Knight of Walpurgis even, who would be compelled through the force of his vow to defend her to his death and detriment. It went without saying that the Russian was one of his very best duelers and wielders of dark magic. The dark mark would continue to act as an equal binding force on Antonin's soul and magical core, but he hardly thought that would cause conflict. After all, Tom himself could not cause Hermione harm and his own entreaties should keep his Death Eater working towards his goals even as the man fulfilled the terms of his vow. He had his wife's devotion and loyalty, and therefore he continued to have Antonin's. At worst if something unexpected were to happen, Dolohov would die excruciatingly, having found his two vows to be in conflict and being forced to fail to fulfill one.

It seemed that was a risk the man should have considered when he offered a bond to Hermione: Tom was a proponent of logical consequences.

Regardless of his reasons, he had expected his inquisitive little wife to immediately set upon him with questions as to why he allowed the allegiance in the first place and what he anticipated in return. He had been disappointed.

Instead, his Deliciae had retreated into herself, spending less and less time in his study and more time in her own. While she returned to him in time to prevent the need entreaty from affecting her, she seemed to be avoiding him otherwise. She appeared to be increasingly introspective, and while that was a characteristic he could have gladly tolerated out of most of his people, the pulling in his chest was not so readily born. Her distress grew as time went on, causing the empathy entreaty to tighten and twinge as she fell deeper and deeper into her own musings. The feeling was different entirely from when she was overcome by a sudden rage or acute grief but rather was a constant discomfort, like a cut in an unfortunate area that continually opens with movement.

'Emotions,' Tom thought with a shudder as he rubbed at the sore spot just below his solar plexus. 'Always with the emotions.'

He had striven to ignore it, of course, pushing the discomfort and her state of mind to the back of his consciousness as he strategized, plotted, and schemed. The feel of it, however, was becoming maddening, like an itch he could never quite scratch. It rankled his sensibilities and was quickly reaching a level that he considered untenable. He was surprised that he had not been enraged by the interference with his person, that he was not infuriated that she dare to feel things that caused him inconvenience, but it seemed that his ability to properly identify her emotions as inconsequential was being impeded, no doubt by their bonding.

With a growl of annoyance, Tom vanished the last of his coffee and stood, adjusting his cufflinks and muttering a spell to smooth any wrinkles in his slacks. He had not sought her out in her study since the day she had fallen unconscious, but he was no longer willing to abide the stinging in his chest without addressing it with his little wife. Her personal tantrum was distracting and could not be ignored any longer.

Nothing could be allowed to pull Tom Riddle's focus from his goals, not even his crown jewel.

He entered the room designated for her without knocking and paused to study her form where she sat curled up with her feet tucked beneath her at the bay window. Her face was peaked as she kept her eyes fixed on the unruly forest in the distance, watching the little flakes of white float down from the sky to disappear into the treetops. Her ill-behaved curls were piled on top of her head in a barely restrained bun that would absolutely never pass inspection by any pureblood witch and her usual dresses and robes were absent, replaced with a scratchy, acrylic jumper. The maroon monstrosity masquerading as a sweater was embellished with a large 'R' emblazoned on her chest that clashed horribly with a pair of pink, flannel pajama-like trousers that were clearly a remnant from her time in the future. Her look, if one could call it that, was completed with a pair of fuzzy socks that contained a number of stitched bunnies on them, which were charmed to hop in circles around her ankles and the soles of her feet.

While she had been significantly more disheveled when he had seen her lately, he had certainly not been granted the dubious pleasure of seeing her like this. Tom quirked an eyebrow and fought back a smirk at her ridiculous attire, even as his chest pulsed in increased distress.

"Gaza," he greeted her quietly, leaning back against the wall of her room as she continued to stare out the window.

"Tom," Hermione responded without looking at him. "What are you doing in my study? It's not time to meet the need entreaty yet."

He supposed he would have been angry had she sounded annoyed or upset about his intrusion into her private space, but as she simply sounded at best mildly curious, he could not find it within himself to be.

"I do believe, Little Gaza," he told her, "that it is time we address whatever turmoil you are currently immersed in. I have allowed you time to sort through whatever ails you, but as you seem incapable of doing so on your own and as this incapability is negatively affecting my person, the time has come for me to eliminate whatever this problem is. You will tell me who or what has caused this distress within you and I will see it vanquished."

Finally, she looked at him and Tom tensed slightly when he saw tears in her eyes.

"You can't," she whispered, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek on them.

He licked his lips, surprised and slightly nauseated at her show of vulnerability even as something inside of him strummed harshly for him to protect, protect, _kill_ whatever or whoever caused her unhappiness. Whether it was the entreaty, the bond, or something else, he could not say, but for the first time in his life, Tom felt something unnamable.

It was foreign, a... something. Not sympathy and certainly not anything as common as pain at her pain, but rather-

A responsibility, of sorts; a need to fix, a need to soothe, a need to destroy what was making his very favorite tool broken and to make her whole again. He did not want to fix it for him, or at least not entirely for him, but for _her_. She was _his_ , after all, and Tom Riddle took care of his things. If she would only tell him where the issue lay, he would see it gutted before the day was through. Fierce possessiveness and protectiveness raged against his ribs, along with a disconcerting fondness for the crying witch in front of him.

The realization that her importance to him had evidently increased without his noticing settled like a lead weight in his gut and he closed his eyes briefly while he grit his teeth. It had to be the bond. But, then again, bond or no, he was not a man to deny himself anything he desired and what he desired now was for Hermione to be safe and content.

As such, he intended to have that.

"I am capable of a great many things, little wife," Tom told her, crossing the room and settling behind her in the window seat. The curves of her body pressing against him reminded him of her fervent denial of all urges carnal since their binding night, but he set that thought aside to explore later. He doubted very much she was interested in fucking him at the moment, usual repressed lust aside.

"There is none who is allowed to harm you, none who may cause you discomfort. Name it and I will conquer it."

Hermione laughed hollowly even as she leaned her back further into his chest, allowing his arms to settle around her own and his knees to encircle her until she was surrounded by his body.

"Well that's the thing, though, isn't it?" She said in response, her voice thick with tears as she shook her head. "I'm your little wife, aren't I? I am Lady Riddle and I am in 1955 with a bond to Lord Voldemort and now to one of your very best Death Eaters and nothing -NOTHING- is as it should be."

She reached up to violently rub at her eyes as Tom watched her impassively over her shoulder, waiting for her to continue. He was getting the distinct impression that the demon she was battling was less than corporeal, making his plans to murder the culprit significantly more complicated.

"Do you know who I was supposed to marry?" Hermione asked, chuckling when a growl ripped through his chest at the thought of someone, _anyone_ else touching what was his. "I'm not stupid, I won't tell you his name, but I had a plan. You know by now that I was on the opposite side of you, in the war. I know we haven't talked about it, but I was. And when it was over, I was going to finally have time to fall in love with that boy."

She shook her head. "He was so good, you see," she continued, her pace increasing and becoming frantic as the throbbing in Tom's chest increased. "So good and loyal and true. I was so young, I didn't even really know how to be in love yet, but I know I was going to fall in love with him. And we were going to grow together. I would get a job at the ministry, probably in Creature's Rights and he'd be an Auror or maybe work in his brother's shop and everything would be just so. We'd have our best friend, and that man would be my brother-in-law and I'd watch him and his wife have messy haired little babies and everything would just be-"

Hermione cut off with a sob, her body shaking against him as she clenched her jaw. The area below his solar plexus seemed to ripple from the stabbing pain her emotions sent to him. "But that's not my life anymore," she said a little manically. "I don't get to have that. I'm here and I have you and the allegiance of a Death Eater who once tried to kill me and Nidum Serpentis and a BLOODY house elf and this- _this_ is the only life I'm going to get!"

Abruptly, she spun in his arms and latched onto his biceps, her fingernails digging into him so hard that he could feel the points of them through his shirt. His arms moved to circle her waist even as he could feel little bruises begin to form beneath her fingers. Tom's heart pounded frantically as her magic skimmed over his skin, wild and damn near burning him in its intensity. He bit back a groan as arousal and pain warred through his consciousness, his chest threatening to split open under the pressure the empathy entreaty was wreaking on his body.

"Then everything went to hell and we lost and I'm fighting, fighting, FIGHTING to remember who that girl was who thought we'd defeat Lord Voldemort and live happily ever after and I don't know her anymore!"

Her sobbing increased, her magic flared, and Hermione pressed her forehead against his own as he panted heavily and tried to focus half-lidded eyes on her. "Now - _now-_ I live with Lord Voldemort," she almost whimpered. "I'm bonded to him. I want him, I crave him, half the time I almost _like_ him, and I hate it!"

His Gaza leaned forward and pressed a desperate, gasping kiss to his lips but when he moved to kiss her back, she retreated and burrowed her face into his shoulder. Her arms wrapped around his waist in turn and she inhaled sharply, releasing her breath in a large whoosh that he could almost feel through the now damp material of his button-down shirt.

"This is the only life I have, Tom," she whispered into the fabric above his collar bone. "You're all that I have. Do I have to hate you forever for what you would have become? Can I only be true to myself if I punish you for all eternity for what you are? You're a bad man, Tom Riddle. Such a bad man. You hurt people, you are capable of such _evil_ , and who am I if I let myself forget that long enough to like you?"

Tom buried his nose in the curls of her hair and took a deep breath to center himself through the sensation of his chest splitting into pieces and her magic taunting him into tantalizing madness. No wonder his Deliciae was so incredibly despondent; she was tearing herself asunder as she fought against who she used to be and who she would become. Strangely, he did not feel her hatred and anger personally. While he was Lord Voldemort, he wasn't _her_ Lord Voldemort. That man was clearly mad and worse, he had thoroughly fucked up all of Tom's plans. That was not a man he identified with.

He had once thought that if she could only overcome her morality, she could be his equal. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that her morality was as much a part of her as the flesh and bone that made up all the pieces of her, though, and to tear it away would likely be the same as killing her. Inconvenient, but not an insurmountable obstacle. Perhaps where she could not stand to break, she could learn to bend.

"The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die," Tom told her. "As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind."

Hermione seemed surprised into a watery chuckle that had him biting back a smirk. "Nietzche? You're quoting Nietzche at me?" She laughed and the pain in his chest abated ever so slightly. "What is it with men quoting things to me lately? Fine then. 'One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too'."

"Ah, but Little Gaza, are you not already losing control of your head?"

She scoffed at him but remained silent, and the pain in his chest ebbed further.

"I am not the man to speak to in matters of morals and ethical debates," Tom told her, bringing a hand up to run up her spine and make her shiver against him. "Emotions and feelings are not something I have ever strived to understand, Deliciae, and I find them to be base weaknesses at best. But logic I am intimately familiar with and it is my understanding that pragmaticism is one of few characteristics we share."

"What do you value most, little wife?" he continued, bringing both his palms up to cup her cheeks and force her red-rimmed eyes to meet his own. "Obviously your personal ethics are important to you, but do you prioritize them over the vision you have to change the world I am making? Do you value your hatred of the monster you once knew over your ability to influence the man you know now? How much are you willing to pay to attempt to punish me for a future that will never come to be?"

"And what about the things you already have done?" She asked with narrowed eyes. "What about the evil you still will do?"

Tom shrugged and moved to press a gentle kiss in front of her ear. "I am who I am, Gaza," he murmured into her skin. "Swallow that truth and allow the bond to work as it should, or deny what you feel and cut your own knees away. The more you fight what you feel now in the name of the past, the less power you have in the present."

It went against his nature, to allow her a choice. Tom was accustomed to manipulation and wrapping the noose so firmly around a man to lead him in the right direction, that the person he was leading would mistake the rope for his own skin and follow blindly. Such tactics, however, would not work with this witch. She was clever and broken and while he could reason with her, she had to choose this for herself. Otherwise, she was smart enough to figure out she hadn't chosen the life she held in her hands later, as well as powerful enough to tear down everything they built when she did.

An hour passed in silence as they sat in front of the bay window of her study, flecks of snow drifting down beyond the windowpane as he allowed her time to consider her options. While patience was not his favorite attribute, it was one he could employ endlessly when the end result was successfully ensnaring whatever prey he sought.

Finally, Hermione sighed and rubbed her face against his shirt. "Why must you be so charming, Tom?" she lamented. "Why do you have to be fiercely intelligent and fascinating and magnetic and perceptive? If you were a dunce with a superiority complex or a true pureblood extremist, bond or not, resisting you would be so much easier."

Tom smirked at her and brought his lips to trail along her cheekbone. "I doubt very seriously I would have the following I do if I was not exactly as appealing as I am. And why seek to resist me? You are perhaps the only person who need not fear that they will drown in my depths, as I will not allow it."

His Gaza shook her head and laughed, turning her head to give him better access. "I can't even be annoyed with you for being cocky, because you aren't. You view being appealing as a tool you can use, not as something that makes you better than others. Yes, you think you are superior, but it's because you actually _are_ magically superior. Is there anything you're bad at, aside from the light side of human emotion?"

Tom continued the descent of his lips across her jawline and down her neck. "It is unwise to admit weaknesses, Deliciae. If I am inferior at something, you will have to find it yourself."

"Unfair, Tom," she chuckled, threading her hands through his hair as she held him to her skin. "You're so unfair."

Tom shrugged and wrapped his hand loosely around her throat, bringing her face up to his as he stared into endlessly deep, chocolate eyes. "I never agreed to play fair, Gaza, and I never will. Rules were made to be followed by lesser mortals and games were made to be played by those without ingenuity. I will not play another's game. I will always make my own."

He leaned forward and bit her soft lower lip, swallowing down her gasp as he tightened his grip very slightly on the delicate column encased in his hand. Somehow, in anger and arousal, his palm always ended up against her pulse without conscious thought and while he wasn't sure why he found he rather liked it there. Tom let out a cross between a growl and a moan when she kissed him back, desperation obvious in the way her hands shook against him and her heart pounded beneath his hand. He breached the barrier her lips provided to toy with her tongue, licking into her mouth deeply as she squirmed against him as if the need to be closer was too big to contain in her body.

Idly, he wondered if part of his entreaty had a sexual component that she had been ignoring, but frankly, he doubted it. Even when his Gaza had despised him, her magic and her more carnal instincts had always reached for him.

Without pausing for her to object, Tom grasped the abomination of a jumper she was wearing at the hem and ripped it over her head, revealing the plain cotton undergarment beneath it. The only sound of upset the witch made, however, was when their lips were forced to part and that moment was quickly ended as she slammed back into him the second she was able. He moaned at her fire, her aggression, as she pushed him back on the window seat until she straddled his hips.

Hermione broke the kiss once more before she frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. She grimaced and made an impatient noise before flicking her wrist and spelling away the entirety of his clothes. Tom laughed out loud as he found himself hard and nude beneath his little bond mate, watching with half-mast eyes as she kissed down his neck and chest. His laughter cut off abruptly as her magic skittered across his bare skin, causing his arousal to soar impossibly higher and more blood to rush south.

While he was not one to lay back and let the witch he was with run the show, the feel of Hermione's tongue on dips of his abdominal muscles felt desperate and worshipful rather than dominating. He allowed her to play with him, burying his hands in her hair as she licked and sucked all around his stomach until she began to kiss down the trail of hair that would lead her ever lower, to the spot on his body that currently ached the most.

He wrenched her head up roughly, not bothering to temper how hard he pulled with the knowledge that pain was not something she registered, and forced her to look at him. She whined seemingly before she could stop herself, and Tom smirked down at her, waving his own hand to banish her clothing and make them equal.

"Does this mean, Deliciae, that you are done fighting the-"

His voice cut out as he swallowed a moan when Hermione brought a hand down to stroke what she had been denied momentarily the ability to stroke with her tongue.

With iron-clad control, Tom forced his voice to steady and after only a slight pause, continued, "-fighting the bond that we have created? That you have accepted the inescapable fact that you are mine, now and always?"

His Gaza's jaw clenched in displeasure at his wording and she flicked the head of him with her fingernail in chastisement, causing the Dark Lord to inhale harshly. He yanked on her hair involuntarily, disappointed that she was _still_ being stubborn, but before he could communicate his disapproval, she spoke.

"If I am yours, Tom Riddle," she said, hand back to stroking him steadily, "then you must admit that you are equally mine. The bond did not only tie me to you, but it also tied _you_ _to me_."

Tom raised an eyebrow at her as his mind paused to consider. No one had ever attempted to claim him, no one would dare quite frankly, but it should not surprise him that his crown jewel, his Gaza, his Valkyrie would be the one to do so. While he considered himself above mortals and humanity, above petty emotions and the usual shortcomings of man, he had never thought himself above primordial magic. The only thing he had ever served with any reverence was Magic.

And he had the same starburst burned into his palm that his little wife did. Magic had claimed him as hers just as much as it had claimed her for him.

"So it would seem, then, that we have reached an agreement," he stated, ignoring the way she stroked along the thick vein running the length of him in a petty attempt to slur his speech with his pleasure. "You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone; you are mine and I will be yours."

Hermione's whole body froze, naked and vulnerable, staring down at him with wide eyes. Her mouth gaped for a moment as he watched her pretty cheeks flush, backlit by the snow falling gently outside her window not a foot away. She was exquisite, powerful, and his; if only she would admit it.

"Then-" she began, stuttering as she swallowed heavily and looked away before she brought her eyes back to meet his with determination. "Then you are mine and I will be yours."

Tom broke then, surging upwards to capture her mouth with his own and forcing her to reverse their positions. He pressed her into the window seat and covered her body with his, allowing her thighs to cradle him as he ravaged her lips and tongue, that fierce possessiveness rising inside of him to heights never seen before. He had told her so many times but never before had she admitted the truth and to hear his claim from her lips was sweeter than the finest vintage.

"Say it again," he demanded, moving down to suckle the breasts he had grown so very fond of. She whimpered as he sucked a nipple into his mouth, but complied.

"I'm yours," she said breathlessly and Tom felt his magic flare violently outward as his hips thrust involuntarily against the window seat.

He laved her breasts with equal attention but did not tease her as he yearned to, not this time. Instead, he slithered down her body, biting and licking at the softness of her belly and the curve of her hips until the slight stubble of his cheek was rubbing redness onto the inside of his Deliciae's thigh. Good behavior deserved rewards, after all, and his little wife was being so very, very good.

Hermione cried out beneath him as he licked at her, forcing her thighs apart when they tried to close around his head with a sticking charm that she was too lost in pleasure to dispel. With teeth and tongue, he brought her to the brink before he could not resist pulling back and nibbling the insides of her thighs, listening to her beg for her release as he marked her skin as his and ignored her whimpers.

His clever, clever witch caught on quick however and the third time he built her up and began to pull away, she cried out.

"I'm yours," she said breathlessly, taking fistfuls of his hair and pressing him back to the slippery flesh between her thighs. "You take care of what's yours."

Tom could not deny her after that and he worried her nub between his teeth, stroking her from the inside until moments later she clenched around his fingers and her magic surged outwards, crashing over him. He moaned, unable to contain himself any longer as he wrenched his fingers away and replaced them quickly, thrusting inside to the deepest depths of sin that was his Gaza.

Her hands clawed at his thighs at the intrusion and he growled his pleasure at the pain, watching with hooded eyes as she was revealed to him in her entirety, her thighs still pried apart with the sticking charm. He could not tear his eyes away from where he disappeared into her body over and over, sliding into wet heat and pulling out glistening with the release he had given her.

Tom reached between them and rubbed at her still sensitive nub, forcing multiple peaks from her body as a reward for her acceptance while he watched in fascination where she tightened and released around him. When finally she was spent and sated, mewling beneath him with oversensitivity, Tom allowed the tightening in his stomach to spiral outwards, groaning as he spent himself inside her pliant body.

He looked down upon his lovely little bond mate, half asleep as she lay boneless in front of the glass pane, and wordlessly summoned his wand and shirt from the clothes that had earlier been spelled across the room. He cleaned them both and transfigured the shirt into a blanket, rolling Hermione onto her side as he settled behind her.

She slept, nestled in the crook of his shoulder, as the Dark Lord rested and watched the snow fall from the sky outside their home.


	17. Immortality

It was a Thursday in early December while Hermione was picking at her breakfast of eggs, beans, and fried bread that she cleared her throat to bring Tom's attention to her. He raised an eyebrow and lowered his coffee back to the table, giving her his undivided attention.

She offered him a small nervous smile and he raised the other eyebrow.

"Yes, Deliciae?"

"About Hepzibah Smith..." she began.

"Mmm," Tom hummed. "You did say I'd be meeting the lovely Madam Smith at some point this month. I am quite eager to secure my founder's items."

"I can imagine," she said with a grin that she hid behind her hair, not fighting the small surge of tenderness she felt at his eagerness to get his hands on magical artifacts. While thievery was obviously _wrong_ , she was also well aware she wasn't going to keep him from stealing them. She had offered the information to him after all, and even had she not, he'd still be meeting Ms. Smith this month. If she was completely honest with herself, she was rather excited to examine the untarnished heirlooms as well.

"What about Hepzibah Smith, then, did you wish to discuss?" Tom inquired, fingering the lip of his coffee cup.

"I was just wondering how you intended to get the locket and the goblet," Hermione told him, picking up her own cup and drinking deeply of the Earl Grey. "In my timeline, you murdered Hepzibah in your eagerness to make another Horcrux. Since we've agreed you won't be making any additional Horcruxes, I-"

"Did we come to some consensus on that point, Gaza?" He interrupted with a slight upwards twitch of the corners of his mouth. "I do not recall consenting to that."

She paused, momentarily shocked into silence, before her eyes narrowed.

"I believe I was _rather clear_ about the consequences of further Horcrux production-"

"Not really," he interrupted again, savoring a drink of his coffee and waving his hand dismissively. "I recall a lot of theoretical posturing but no actual facts were cited. You, yourself, stated that you were unsure if the madness came from the Horcruxes or from becoming incorporeal."

"I would think you would be rather _less_ interested in taking the chance on it _perhaps_ not being the Horcruxes that caused the insanity than you seem to be," she told him incredulously.

Tom shrugged. "I have no intention of going mad. However, do not presume to assign agreements to me I have not made."

He sighed and when he continued, it was with an air of irritation. "Frankly, Horcruxes are not without their flaws."

"You mean aside from their rather horrifying moral implications, I presume?" Hermione said sarcastically.

He smirked at her, reaching up to tuck a lock of that infuriatingly perfect hair back from his face. "Yes, aside from those."

"For one thing, there is the aging of the body," he explained, fingers tapping impatiently against the table as he oozed agitation. "While the Horcrux may preserve one's consciousness, the body continues to deteriorate and would, eventually, require replacing. There is, of course, the potential of forcing the soul shard within a Horcrux to become corporeal and forcing one's consciousness into the new body made from said forced corporealness, but the process rather destroys the Horcrux. Therefore, the ability to do so is limited by the number of Horcruxes made."

"So, what then?" Hermione said, mind whirling about with the intellectual implications even as her stomach rebelled at the subject matter. "You intended to buy yourself maybe... 1000 or 1050 years of life by utilizing the Horcruxes to make replacement bodies? That's not really immortality, is it?"

Tom's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed with annoyance. "No," he stated coldly. "However, it would ensure me time to search for and secure the Deathly Hallows, assuming they exist. Or, if they do not, to secure the Philosopher's Stone."

Hermione pointedly looked away from him before he could catch the spark of recognition in her eye regarding the Hallows. She was of the opinion that Tom was _quite_ powerful enough without her providing him with the means to secure the Elder Wand and if he noticed that she may have information on it, he'd never let her alone until he secured what he wanted. Instead, she focused on something she'd been mulling over since she agreed contractually to help him secure immortality.

"I've actually been considering this whole 'mortality' issue," she told him carefully, bringing his focus which had been employed somewhere in that rather intelligent mind of his back to her. "I've also been considering that you will likely not be allowing me to retain my own mortality. Am I incorrect in that assumption?"

Tom smiled. "Very good, Little Gaza," he answered. "Aeternum Adstringo is, after all, bound forever. I can't very well have you going over to the other side and be forced to cope with your soul calling out to me perpetually to come join you until the end of time. That, too, would lead to bond sickness and, because I intend to lack the ability to die, madness."

Hermione shut her eyes for a moment and allowed her fears to settle. While she may have been actively in denial about that reality, she wasn't truly ignorant enough to miss the implications of binding oneself to a sociopathic d ark lord completely committed to living forever. She was not going to find release from him in death, either, and while she still did not particularly like that fact, she was growing to accept it.

"Ideally then, especially considering what you would call my rather tedious viewpoints on ethics," Hermione said with a pained smile, "We'll need to secure the immortality offered by the Philosopher's Stone, or more specifically, the Elixir of Life. That would provide us both with the immortality you covet."

Tom stilled and looked at her with piercing, searching eyes. "And you know where to find it then, I presume, if you're bringing this to my attention now?"

She tilted her head and bit her lip. "In my time," she told him, "The Philosopher's Stone is moved to Hogwarts in 1991 by Albus Dumbledore to protect it from the clutches of Lord Voldemort's lackey, who intends to use it to provide him with a new and working body. The stone is destroyed to prevent this from becoming a reality."

His eyes sparked with irritation at the thought of his other future self being stymied and Hermione fought not to grin. "And before 1991?" he asked, voice betraying none of his aggravation.

"Vault 713, Gringotts bank," she said with a smile.

Hunger flashed across Tom's face for the briefest of moments before it smoothed back into a blank mask. "Gringotts is nigh impregnable," he stated, bringing a hand up to run across the masculine stubble prickling his jaw as he considered. "And the Goblins are near impossible to bribe or bargain with. The only way to enter with the express purpose of potentially stealing anything would be to utilize subterfuge."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I actually have a bit of experience breaking into Gringotts," she admitted as her face flushed. "I know my way around quite a few of the enchantments, but there are still some issues that I haven't resolved."

Tom smiled, much more warmly than he ever did at anyone else, and stood, holding a hand out to help her to her feet before he began leading her from the kitchen and onwards towards the stairs with his palm on the small of her back. "Well, little wife," he murmured into her hair as they walked, "Let us sort out these issues together then, shall we?"

Hermione's mouth twitched upwards into a small half-smile as she pushed back the part of her brain that screamed at her about allowing pleasure at Lord Voldemort's touch to run through her and determined to simply enjoy the sensation of his hand on her spine. His fingertips through the relatively thin fabric of her house dress were still as scorching as ever and she wondered if the attraction and the way her magic tried to reach out through her skin towards his would ever lessen with time.

She suspected it wouldn't, and she was working on being okay with that. A month or so of flaying herself alive from the inside and a conversation with the Dark Lord had convinced her of at least one thing: this was her life now and there was absolutely no going back. She did not have it in her to discard the only tools available to her here simply because her old self found them distasteful. It would be illogical to do so and if there was one thing Hermione Granger was absolutely not, it was illogical. It was also rather pointless to fight her affinity for Tom; it was a fruitless pursuit that would conclude eventually with a lot of useless effort to stem the tide and she simply didn't want to waste any more of that energy.

It's not as if he could leave her, was it? He couldn't hurt her physically, it pained him to hurt her emotionally, and he did not have the option of abandoning her. What, after all, did she now have to lose except herself?

This was not to say that her mental gymnastics were over. She doubted very much that the self-loathing and doubt were gone for good. But for now, she had found a place where while she was not overly happy about her circumstances, she was accepting them as they were. And she was determined to use her position and her standing with Tom to do some good in this world and influence the ways he was shaping fate to his will to the best of her considerable ability. He wasn't wrong when he pointed out it was impossible for her to do that effectively whilst she was busy wallowing in the many misdeeds of a different Lord Voldemort.

This cognitive dissonance, this separating of the man who was the same as the other and yet so very different, was really just a mindset. It was arguably a flimsy one at that. But it was also effective and so she was clinging to it and allowing herself to think of Tom, only Tom, and she was categorizing the monster of her past as something else entirely.

Survival. She knew these coping mechanisms weren't exactly healthy, but neither was marrying a psychopath and yet, here she was.

They arrived at Tom's study where he pulled back the wards he always kept active on the room and allowed her to enter before him. The wards fell back in place behind him and he cleared a large space off his desk with a few flicks of his wand, sending the piles of parchments and books sailing back to their respective spaces, before he pulled out a new parchment and settled it onto the space.

"So little Gaza," he began, moving behind the desk and facing her with his body leaned forward and his palms pressed against the wood. "You implied you've been considering this option for a while. Enlighten me; how would you steal the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Well," she said with a smirk, "That's the first thing right there. I wouldn't."

Tom blinked at her. "Explain."

"Everyone who has any basic magical knowledge either knows or can easily find out that Nicholas Flamel is the owner and maker of the Philosopher's Stone, correct?" she pointed out.

He agreed with a short nod, waving his hand impatiently for her to continue. "This makes him a target," she stated simply. "If someone wants to have the stone, they focus all their efforts on him. I say let him keep his stone."

"You want to make your own," Tom posited with a considering tip of his head. "How? And why would we need to sneak into Gringotts then?"

"The story of Nicholas Flamel states that he was born in 1330 in Pontoise, France. He grew up there and attended Beauxbatons, where he met his wife, Perenelle," Hermione explained, tapping her wand to the parchment in front of her to charm it to begin taking notes. "We know Flamel worked as a bookseller for all of his natural life. Muggle records show he died in 1418 and left his home, possessions, and known investments to his nephew, Perrier. Wizarding records, however, show he faked his death and moved, with his wife, to India."

Tom's nostrils flared with impatience. "The point, Deliciae. This is a matter of public record and I am not fond of pontificating for pontificating's sake."

"Albus Dumbledore was a close personal friend of Nicholas Flamel in my time," she continued, ignoring his interruption as she quickly pinned her riotous curls out of the way with a sticking charm and leaned over the parchment. "He kept a number of memories about a great many things under unbelievably difficult warding charms involving QUITE a few people. He saved memories with information he thought would be useful. Dumbledore would become Headmaster in 1965."

"That hypocritical, arrogant irritant becomes Headmaster?!" Tom seethed, temporarily losing all decorum as his fists clenched and his magic sparked wildly.

"Shush," Hermione said dismissively. Tom took what was likely a threatening step around the desk and opened his mouth, but she spoke quickly, cutting him off. "He won't become _anything_ , Tom. You're beginning your influence campaign at Hogwarts much earlier than during my timeline, remember? None of that is going to happen. Now, you need to focus."

He clenched his teeth together and shut his eyes tightly, but eventually returned to his previous post. "Would that crucios worked on you," he murmured, but the threat was undermined by the fond upturn of his lips. "Fine, little wife. But mind your tongue."

She fought not to roll her eyes at his condescending tone and ignored the baiting. "Dumbledore died in my sixth year and the Battle of Hogwarts occurred in what would have been my seventh. After the battle, the one I showed you? The school was left abandoned and I returned to the site to scavenge and, eventually, plot to go back in time. It took me nine months to break the man's warding on his memories, but I managed it. And there were three memories that included Nicholas Flamel."

"Flamel confided to Dumbledore that while he was working as a bookkeeper, he had been approached by a man," she continued eagerly, flush with the implications of intellectual intrigue and a puzzle. "This figure he later identified as 'Abraham the Jew' and Flamel said the man had angelic ties which coincided quite neatly with a prophetic dream he had experienced. Now, whether you believe in that sort of nonsense or not, we can assume the manuscript he was gifted was real enough. This manuscript was written in a combination of Hebrew and Greek, neither of which Flamel understood, and it took most of his natural life to get it translated. Today, thankfully, we won't have to deal with such tedium, what with modern translation spells being available."

"And what, pray tell, was this manuscript said to contain?" Tom prompted, a knowing glint flashing in his eye.

"The alchemic formula for the Philosopher's stone, among other things," Hermione said triumphantly. "Dumbledore, of course, attempted to ferret out where the stone and/or the manuscript were kept, but Flamel was very tight lipped about their whereabouts. All he would say is that they were both safe and were being held, together, by trusted, unbiased parties. _Together,_ Tom. That means the manuscript-"

"-Is also in Vault 713," He interrupted, smirking as he glanced down at the charmed parchment that was noting the details of their conversation. "So you intend to have us steal the- Wait, no. Oh, you clever, clever witch..."

He paused and smiled at her wickedly. She fought valiantly now to sway under the heat in his eyes. "Not _steal_ the manuscript. Copy it. Flamel continues to be the target for theft, we get the alchemical formula to create our own Philosopher's Stone, and no one else is ever the wiser."

"Including Flamel," she confirmed. "The key is to get access to the vault without anyone knowing we've been in there. When I broke into Gringotts it was to retrieve something and although we were successful and alive at the end, it was really a fluke we didn't die."

"Show me," Tom demanded, stepping around the table and moving to place a hand on her waist. He grounded her with that touch while his other hand clutched her chin between his fingers, bringing her gaze up to meet his. "I need to see the security protocols and what we're up against. Let me into that beautiful brain, Gaza."

"I-"

Hermione hesitated, looking away. Would Tom be angry she was securing one of his horcruxes in order to destroy it? She didn't particularly care if it angered him, she was proud of her choices and the decision to try to destroy Lord Voldemort had been one she'd never regret, but his rages tended to be uncomfortable for them both.

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You're nervous," he stated. It wasn't a question. "Why?"

She sighed and pulled the memory to the forefront of her mind, bringing her eyes up to meet his. "You'll see soon enough," she answered, placing her hands on his shoulders to keep her balance. "Get on with it."

He raised an eyebrow and his mouth twitched at her sass, but he simply stroked a single finger along her bottom lip before breathing out a 'legilimens' and ghosting his way into her head.

Hermione watched the Gringotts break-in again, reliving it with him as she tried to focus more on the security features of the bank and less on the residual terror the experience brought up within her. She had hated being Bellatrix Lestrange. The body had felt dirty like somehow a piece of the deranged witch's soul followed her form and it was uncomfortably bumping up against Hermione's own. Breaking out on the back of the dragon was horrible even in memory form and as soon as the beast cleared the bank floor, she pushed the memory back into the fog and waited for Tom to slip away into the real world.

He withdrew gently and stood there with his fingers still cradling her chin, looking somewhere just past her left shoulder as he considered. She allowed him the time to think, enjoying and yet still uncomfortable with the way her body sang at his touch, soaking up the contact the need entreaty made her crave. He obviously wasn't angry. If anything, the purpose of their break in had been something he brushed by entirely as incidental.

If he wasn't going to bring it up, she certainly wasn't.

"The bag," he murmured, releasing her as he walked back around the desk and began pacing back and forth.

"What?" she asked, confused about what he was referencing.

Tom paused, eyes still focused on the middle distance before he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. He smiled coldly at her and adjusted his cufflinks, running a hand through his hair to straighten it.

"I need to send owls to Orion and Antonin," he began, summoning an unmarked piece of parchment and a quill. "And then we, little wife, are going to Lestrange Manor."

30 minutes later saw Hermione and Tom walking up the paved walkway to the Lestrange homestead. It was raining more than steadily, though the Dark Lord's modified Impervious charm was keeping them completely dry. She didn't know if she was annoyed or impressed that he had managed to construct a way to cast the charm without tying it to a physical object, instead forming a barrier almost like a Protego shield by simply utilizing his own will. She begrudgingly settled on impressed. _Of course_ Tom Riddle would be able to force water and air to bend to his demands as easily as he did men's souls. Of course he'd have that power.

Unlike when anyone came to visit Nidum Serpentis where they had to be specifically and diligently allowed entrance, he had tucked her under his arm and simply approached the home as if the wards were not an impediment. She had felt the magic register them, shudder, and fall away as if it were nothing more than gauzy spider web. She wondered if the Death Eaters were even allowed to ward against him. She suspected not.

The door swung open before they reached it and Angua Lestrange greeted them with worried, jerky movements and an immediate dip into a formal curtsy from which she did not rise. Tom rolled his eyes.

"My Lord," Angua murmured, missing his annoyance as her gaze was now downcast and fixed to the floor. "Welcome once again to our home. Lord Lestrange is at work right now, but if you will allow me a moment, I can owl him and get him here ri-"

"I'm not here to see Rad, Lady Lestrange," he answered with a cold appraisal of her form. "And do get off the floor; this is not one of those kinds of meetings. I assure you, no one has been naughty."

Angua immediately exhaled deeply and rose to her feet, glancing up at Hermione and Tom with relief evident in her face even as calculation flitted ever so subtly across her features.

"May I offer you tea then, my Lord and Lady?" She asked, eyes no longer averted as she led them into the sitting room. She gestured for the pair of them to seat themselves on the loveseat as she herself settled on the chaise across from them.

"No," Tom answered coldly. "We're here on business."

"No, but thank you for the offer," Hermione said at the same time, ignoring her husband's usual show of superiority as she smiled at the woman who could, one day, perhaps be a friend.

Angua blinked, seemingly unsure where to settle her attention before she decided on smiling very, very quickly and very, very hesitantly at Hermione and quickly moving her focus back to Tom. He smirked and Hermione made a face but said nothing.

"What sort of business may I be of service with?" Angua asked, settling herself into a polite, meek expression. Hermione was forced to concede it was a _very_ good mask. Angua, she had noted in her all too brief interactions with the woman, was significantly smarter than she behaved.

While Druella and Walburga wore sneers like diamonds, Angua and Jocelyn draped themselves in innocent, false contentedness and non-threatening gestures. Calliope was much more assertive with her intelligence and ambitions, a woman not made for the artifice of hiding her talents, and while Jocelyn played the part of the empty-headed society wife, Angua shrouded herself in a picture of weak-willed shyness.

Her eyes, though, sharp and clever, gave her away if one was willing to look. Hermione doubted very seriously most were willing to look; she was, after all, only a woman.

Tom, however, never missed a thing and perhaps that was part of why they were here.

"To begin," he told her, leaning back on the loveseat and running a hand absentmindedly through the curls that ran down Hermione's back in her half-up, half-down style, "You can tell Hermione the story of how you met the Pukwudgie you call James."

Angua's eyes widened ever so slightly and she paused, but she seemed to decide against asking questions and nodded. "Alright," she said slowly, turning her attention to Hermione. "I suppose the first question is if you know what a Pukwudgie is."

Hermione bit back her offended remark (' _Of course_ I know what a _Pukwudgie_ is, I'm not daft,') and answered with calm, flat affect.

"They are magical creatures, historically native to the United States," she stated. "In appearance, they are rather small, typically grey-skinned, and have large ears. They are related to the European Goblins we, here, are familiar with."

"That'd be a yes then," Angua said with a small smile. "I once saved a Pukwudgie from a small herd of Acromantulas. My brother, who was eleven at the time, and I were playing hide and seek at a Quidditch World Cup Match. The campsite was beside a forest and I became lost in the thicker trees. I was recently graduated from Hogwarts and perhaps overly cocky and reckless, so I determined to use spells and cleverness to recover my way rather than Apparating out as would have been wise."

"Of course," she continued with a small, self-deprecating upturn of her lips, "I had no idea dangerous creatures were in the forest so close to the World Cup. I doubt the Department of Magical Games and Sports did either. Regardless, that was where I quite literally stumbled upon James. He had been traveling in the wilds of England and had been caught in the web of anti-magic wards. You see, the forest was charmed against non-wizarding magic in case any wizards wandered into it. He was backed up against the tree I came out into the clearing beside, surrounded on three sides by Acromantulas. I didn't consider it, I just grabbed the little creature by the arm and apparated us to safety."

"And since then," Tom cut in, leaning forward slightly in his seat as he fixed his cold gaze on Angua. "James has owed you a debt, as is the Pukwudgie way. 'Help no humans second, but first, pay what's owed.' Pukwudgie despise being indebted to human beings and are always eager to clear their register. You will allow him to do so, Angua. This is a debt I require you to now collect."


	18. Misappropriation

**AN: Sooooo... it's been an awkwardly long time. I have a million reasons for this and I am very, very apologetic but ultimately, life and mental health just imploded and writing became very, very difficult. I did write a Christmas fic for a fest I had signed up for before the issues started, but this story specifically requires a lot of brain power to write because there are a lot of moving pieces to keep track of. I just could not seem to do it, and I haven't written anything aside from that one shot in over two months. Then, of course, I had to get back in the swing of things and it took me a moment to re-read the story and all of my notes, but here we are! A new chapter, finally! You, my readers, are some of the best and most patient of readers and I thank you, once again, for your kindness and patience. You make it so worth it to keep coming back to, even if I've been lost for a bit. Thank you again!**

Tom kept a firm hand on his wife's lower back as they walked into Gringott's bank. She was flanked on her other side by Orion Black, who was looking far too pleased to be here for a man who didn't, actually, know why he was here. All that the Elder Black had been told is that he was to come up with a reason to access his vault and he was to bring the Riddles as his guests.

* * *

 _Three Days Ago_

 _"You summoned me via owl, my Lord?" Orion began with a charming smile, helping himself to Tom's fire whiskey before plopping down on the sofa in the sunroom. "Bit of a surprise, really, since you usually stick with the_ _Morsmordre_ _on my forearm but I am, as always, at your service and mercy."_

 _Tom suppressed a sigh. If there was one member of his Death Eaters who was consistently too familiar, it was Orion Black. He wasn't entirely sure the man was even aware of how to properly grovel. It was to his benefit that he was so very good at what he did and had therefore never had a reason to need to beg._

 _Hermione snorted into her tea and he winked at her._

 _"The_ _Morsmordre_ _is for when I require your_ _presence_ _immediately," Tom drawled, stealing the fire whiskey from Orion that he had not bothered to ask for and drinking it himself. "Seeing as that particular version of summoning makes it impossible to provide you with an appointment time, owls are sometimes a_ _necessary_ inconvenience. _I'm happy to provide you with a little_ _crucio_ _if the lack of pain is not to your liking."_

 _Orion's pupils dilated slightly and he swallowed. His head bent in the very smallest sign of_ _acquiescence_ _he could get away with. "Apologies. How may I serve, my Lord?"_

 _"I will need you to accompany myself and the Lady Riddle on a visit to Gringotts," Tom told him, choosing to accept his pitiful display of obedience in favor of getting on with things and getting him out of_ _Nidum_ _Serpentis. "Your vault is in the 700's, correct?"_

 _Orion tilted his head. "My personal vault is 819, but the Black Family vault is number 711," he answered. "Which do you need access to?"_

 _"The Black Family Vault," Hermione told him,_ _taking a sip of her tea._

 _Orion flashed her a wide smile before settling his attention back on Tom. "And what will you be needing to retrieve from my vault, my Lord?" he asked. "All that I am is yours, of course, but our time in the bank may move more quickly if you direct me to what you need."_

 _"Nothing," Tom answered blankly. "_ _Retrieve whatever you wish. It should, however, be something that will take you a small amount of time to locate; somewhere in the range of 20 minutes or so."_

 _Orion blinked but seemed to understand inane questions would likely result in an unpleasant afternoon for him and therefore chose to keep any queries to himself. However, he did turn to Hermione with that charming, Black smile._

 _"How would you feel about some Black Family Jewelry as a late wedding present, my Lady?"_

 _Hermione grimaced. "With the utmost respect, Orion, I'd rather not own anything_ _Walburga_ _has ever deigned to wear to accompany that fashionable disdain."_

 _Tom_ _was unable to repress his snort at that._

 _Orion smirked. "Rose Gold, then," he determined. "Wallie says it's common."_

 _He stood to leave then, turning to_ _Gilmy_ _to_ _take_ _his cloak as she carried it into the sunroom._

 _"Wallie?!" Hermione mouthed incredulously to Tom as soon as his back was turned._

 _The Dark Lord shrugged._

* * *

Now, Orion stepped forward slightly ahead of them, strutting up to the desk of the Head Goblin with a smile. Although lesser vaults could be accessed by any of the Gringotts goblins, anything between 600 and 900 required the permission of the Head Goblin himself.

Orion rapped his knuckles on the desk, leaning forward to read the goblin's nameplate. "Ah, Mr. Wageart," he started. "I need to access my vault this morning."

Wageart leaned forward and peered impassively at Orion before leaning around him to study Hermione and Tom. Tom pinched his little wife's side lightly when she immediately began to fiddle with the beaded bag clutched in her hands.

Wageart leaned back and resumed writing on the parchment he had previously been updating. "Wands," he intoned in a bored tone. "Everyone's wand who intends to visit the vault, Mr. Black."

"Of course," Orion said with a grin that the old goblin could not be bothered to note. He presented his wand and stepped aside, allowing Tom and Hermione to do the same.

It was a process Tom, himself, despised and a key reason why he did not maintain a vault at Gringotts. He was not accustomed to handing his magic over to anyone, not even in the form of his conduit, and allowing any party to run their greedy little hands along or brush up against his magic in any way that he had not explicitly consented to was absolutely repugnant to him. His Gaza was, as with many things, an exception to this rule. The goblin in front of him decidedly was not.

The allure of the Philosopher's Stone, however, kept Tom momentarily calm and complacent. He reminded himself that despite his distaste for the process, goblins were very proficient keepers of the economy and fiercely clever little creatures for positioning themselves as such. In his rise to power, it would be much more advantageous to secure them as allies than to be forced to commit genocide of the British version of the species. He doubted, for example, that the French branch of Gringotts would be inclined to engage in business with his regime if he had murdered all of their brethren.

Wands were returned and a goblin named Drukz was called upon to direct them to their chosen vault. Tom held out a hand to help Hermione into their cart and for the first time since they'd entered the bank, truly saw her face.

His chest tightened dramatically.

He had not been paying any attention to his little Gaza, but he now noted her pale face, wild eyes, and clammy hands. It seemed that the memory of her previous break-in was weighing on her more than she had admitted.

Tom bit back a grimace. Such an inconvenient time for her to be feeling things.

"Gaza," He murmured, calling her attention back to him. Brown eyes snapped to his and he stroked a thumb across the back of her hand, pulling her into his side as they settled into the cart. The goblin was, thankfully, paying little attention to his temporary human companions but it was only a matter of time before he noted Hermione's rather suspicious demeanor.

"Breathe," Tom said ever so quietly, burying his lips beneath her curls so that his words could slide directly into her ear with no one else the wiser. "All is well; I have considered all aspects and contingencies. You need only-"

His voice cut off as his Deliciae turned abruptly and captured his lips with her own, sucking the air from his words into her own mouth as if she could absorb them directly onto her tongue. She did as instructed and breathed him in, pulling back a moment later to exhale. Tom noted somewhat distantly that the cart was now moving, Orion was blatantly staring, and the pain in his chest had retreated.

Without turning away from where his wife's lips hovered an inch from his own, Tom turned his attention to Orion with a pointed and glacial glance from the corner of his eye. Orion paled and quickly tore his attention away, smoothing his robes down and twirling his wand in his fingers in an attempt to appear busy.

Bringing his attention back to the woman in front of him, Tom raised a single finger and stroked it once across her plump bottom lip before he sat back in the cart and refocused his mind. Arousal, while inevitable when his Gaza's lips stroked his, was distracting and therefore quickly discarded. Thief's Downfall approached and Tom smirked, his mind effectively shifting to focus entirely on the Pukwudgie currently begrudgingly nestled in his wife's beaded bag.

* * *

 _One Day Ago_

 _"James,"_ _Angua_ _greeted with a small, fond smile. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."_

 _James said nothing, glancing at_ _Angua_ _with a blank expression before regarding both Tom and Hermione with suspicion._

 _She sighed, clearly disappointed but resigned to James's manners, before continuing. "I'd like to clear my debt, James. In recompense for the life debt I have held for these many years, it is my desire that you aid Lord Riddle in whatever way he wishes. At the end of the service, I will hold the debt discharged and you will be freed from your obligation to me, in full."_

 _James inhaled, scowling as his suspicion evidently deepened. "And what is this service he requires, Madame Lestrange?"_

 _Angua_ _glanced at Tom, who simply looked back with an impassive countenance. "That is not for me to know, James," she stated carefully._

 _"You would send me off to do some unknown service for an unknown wizard and then call that equal?!" James spat. His eyes shifted frantically about the occupants of the room before he took a step back, clearly considering bolting for the exit._

 _Tom lazily flicked his wand into his hand as he looked at_ _Angua_ _coldly, watching with satisfaction as panic flitted across her features. This was, after all, her asset and despite how she may wish otherwise, she was the only one with leverage over the creature. It fell to her to control it._

 _His Gaza stepped forward, hands_ _outstretched pleadingly, and Tom bit back a sigh. Evidently, his little wife saw the matter differently._

 _"James, please," Hermione began, stopping in the middle of the room with an earnest expression. "I assure you, there is no need for your mistrust. The service is delicate, and by_ _its_ _very nature, requires a great deal of subtlety. While the deed itself should not be overly dangerous for you or any of the participants, the knowledge of it will be so. It is to_ _Angua's_ _benefit she is not privy to it."_

 _James stalled and fixed her with narrowed eyes, no longer attempting to retreat but not_ _acquiescing_ _to stay either._

 _"If you would simply give us a moment to explain," she continued, pressing her advantage, "I think you will find that the bargain is quite reasonable when measured up against a life debt."_

 _The P_ _ukwudgie's_ _jaw_ _tightened as it seemed to struggle with itself momentarily_ _before nodding rigidly. "I'll talk to YOU,_ _" it said, pointing a gnarled little finger at his Gaza before shifting to point at Tom himself. "HIM, I don't trust."_

 _Tom paused, momentarily torn between anger and amusement at the spunk of the little thing. A year ago, he would have cursed it immediately for_ _its_ _cheek but now, that same cheek reminded him of someone. The brief stall of his wand reminded him that he had no idea where else to secure a P_ _ukwudgie_ _with a debt and the creature was needed for his plan to work._

 _He bit back a sigh; he was obviously going soft._ _Angua_ _looked terrified and miserable at the turn of the conversation though, as she should, and that at least soothed him a bit._

 _He allowed the P_ _ukwudgie_ _to lead his_ _Deliciae_ _from the room, unconcerned for where they may go so long as his little wife wore his collar around her neck. With the emerald nestled between her delicious breasts, he could find her anywhere._

 _Tom let his eyes wander to Angua,_ _who was sitting rigidly on the chaise with her eyes downturned._

 _"I have suffered a great deal of disrespect in your home today, Lady Lestrange," he advised her coolly, twirling his wand between his fingers lazily as he lounged on the loveseat. "I take no pleasure in the_ _necessity_ _of correcting such a state, but that creature is your asset and therefore, your responsibility."_

 _"I understand, my Lord,"_ _Angua_ _replied shakily. Despite her obvious fear, she rose from the chaise and moved to kneel in_ _front of him, prostrating herself at his mercy._

 _Begrudgingly, Tom felt his respect for the woman rise. Some of his seasoned Death Eaters begged to be spared_ _an_ _earned punishment, yet here the society wife was more than prepared to take whatever he deigned to provide._

 _Tom considered the woman before him before leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. "The gift of your life debt, wherein you would serve me by giving me it's usage, is a gift that would entitle you to a favor," he mused, watching as_ _Angua_ _resolutely kept her eyes deferentially averted to the floor inches beneath her face. "I would allow you to choose to use that favor to excuse your asset's dismal manners. You may be forgiven the need for this suffering if you so choose."_

 _He watched her lift her head high enough that he could study her face as she licked her lips and stared intently at his shoes. "You are most gracious, my Lord," the woman whispered. "But if it pleases you, I will retain my favor for a later date and suffer your displeasure as you see fit."_

 _Tom felt a shiver of delight run up his spine. Rad, it seemed, had chosen well when selecting a wife; Lady Lestrange was not to be underestimated. Pain was bearable, and a favor from the Dark Lord himself, collected at the right time, was invaluable._

 _The_ _crucio_ _was necessary,_ _of course, but perfunctory and short in this case._ _Angua_ _thanked him for the correction and was admirably quick in pulling herself back together. By the time his wife and the P_ _ukwudgie_ _returned, Tom was enjoying a relaxing tea. The satisfaction after Angua's submission was almost post-coital and his contentment_ _was still slithering through his veins._ _Hermione had managed to convince the creature to_ _aide_ _them_ _and his gratification only increased._

 _It was not until he had returned to_ _Nidum_ _Serpentis that evening with his little wife tucked into his side that he realized that he had allowed Hermione to negotiate on the Death Eater's and more importantly, the Dark Lord's, behalf._

 _This bond was downright insidious._

* * *

Now, though, Tom supposed it had been an ultimately wise, if ill-thought-out, decision. James was disillusioned and tucked into Hermione's bag which had been charmed with an undetectable extension charm since before she had even considered traveling back to him. In the memory, it had become clear that the bag did not appear to be subject to the magics of the waterfall and as they passed under it, his theory was confirmed. Despite the stiffening of the woman beside him, they emerged unchanged and unmolested. Tom smiled coldly at his Deliciae, a reminder that as he had told her earlier, all would move forward smoothly and as he planned it.

He would not speak for the Lord Voldemort she knew in the other timeline, mad and inefficient being that he was, but this version of himself very rarely made mistakes.

A few minutes later, the cart slowed to a stop in front of a landing.

"Vaults seven hundred and ten through seven hundred and twenty," Drukz drawled in a bored tone, directing them with an outstretched, gnarled hand towards the vaults.

"Very good," Orion said pleasantly, strutting ahead towards where he knew his own vault to be. Tom steered his wife forward, noting that while her face was still pale, she appeared to have settled into a determined sort of momentum. His chest gave no pulses of distress, which he took to be a good sign of her emotional stability.

Excellent. While he could forgive her the dips and dives of her emotions, a heist was certainly no place to explore them.

While Hermione's memory had led him to believe they would be briefly facing a dragon, that particular security measure must have been reserved for people approaching the vaults from less conventional paths, as they saw no such creature. They moved past vault 710 and stopped in front of the Black Family Vault, with Orion attempting and failing to engage the goblin in discussion about the increased security methods as the vault number increased.

"Mind you," Orion was saying, "I find it to be quite efficient not to have to maintain a key, as it were, to access my-"

"Vault Seven Hundred and Eleven," Drukz interrupted, running a finger down the door in a caressing fashion before he turned back to their party. "Please return to the cart after your business is concluded."

The goblin walked away as the vault door swung open, leaving Orion to stare after him.

"Not the most chatty fellow," The Black patriarch mumbled under his breath as he strode in through the now open door. His Gaza grinned beside him and Tom bit back a sigh of annoyance before following Orion inside.

Once in the vault, Orion turned to Tom and Hermione. "So, we're here now," he said, pausing to wink at Hermione. "I do believe I promised the Lady some jewelry."

He glanced back at the many treasures behind him and took a step towards the left side. "Rose gold, did we say?" he verified.

Tom flicked his wand into his hand and pointed it at the elder Black brother's back. "Stupefy," he said blandly, watching impassively as Orion slumped to the floor.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. "Was that really necessary?" she asked with exasperation. "There are other spells-"

"No, it was not," He answered coldly, pulling the beaded bag from her hands and opening it. He heard her huff behind him, but she kept silent as he summoned the Pukwudgie from the bag and set the creature on the floor.

James, it appeared, was furious at the treatment and his mode of transportation, but he said nothing as Hermione once again went over the plan with him.

"So you'll enter the vault using the finger provided and your magic. It's similar enough to goblin magic, so it should register as just another worker accessing the vault," she told him, brushing off his little jacket before the creature pointedly removed her hands and glared at her.

"Right. So sorry," Hermione stuttered, smoothing her hair and taking a step back. "You'll enter the vault-"

"Get the manuscript," James interrupted impatiently. "Duplicate it. Return it to its exact previous position and return to this vault."

"And back in the bag," Tom said with a cold smile.

James inhaled and his eyes flashed, but he visibly forced himself to relax. "And then my debt is repaid. In full," he said aloud.

"With our gratitude," his Gaza added with a quelling look in Tom's direction which he ignored.

James grunted and looked at Hermione, gesturing to his body. "Well?" he said impatiently.

Hermione quickly disillusioned the Pukwudgie before reaching for the beaded bag and plunging her hand in. Her face twisted with distaste and Tom bit back a chuckle of amusement.

* * *

 _Two Days Ago_

 _Antonin settled into Tom's dragon skinned armchair, glancing from the Dark Lord to Hermione before he cleared his throat._

 _"Antonin," Tom greeted him, taking a sip of his_ _firewhiskey_ _as the Russian nodded and gave a half bow._

 _"My Lord," he answered, but Tom cut him off with a tsk._

 _"Informal meetings require dinner party etiquette, as you are aware," he reminded the man._

 _"Of course, Tom," Antonin replied immediately. "Apologies." He glanced at Hermione and offered her a_ _tentative_ _smile, which she returned much more warmly than either man expected._

 _"Hello, Myshka,_ _" His Gaza said teasingly, and Tom watched with something between amusement and jealousy as Antonin Dolohov flushed with pleasure._

 _"Hello, Kotik,_ _" he responded in kind, wilting back into his chair only when he caught the lift of Tom's eyebrow and the flash of his eyes. His little wife must have caught it too, because her eyes filled with something like apprehension, presumably for her sworn wizard, and she immediately leaned into his side and planted a small kiss at the base of his neck._

 _Tom buried his hand in her curls, keeping her face pressed against him as he stared at Antonin coldly. Hermione lifted her head to whisper in his ear. "It's only a pet name, Tom, and a reminder of our status," she soothed him. "He is_ _mouseling_ _to my kitten; prey to my predator."_

 _The explanation did, in fact, unruffle him, though he silently dove into Dolohov's mind even as he kept his wife concealed with her lips against his ear._

 _'Caution, myshka_ _,' he breathed disdainfully into his lackey's mind. Antonin swallowed heavily and nodded, flinching as Tom wrenched his way free before gently releasing his wife._

 _"Where is the_ _artifact_ _?" The Dark Lord asked, placing a possessive hand on Hermione's thigh as he took another drink of his fire whiskey. Perhaps he'd have Dolohov come back at another time and explore the man's thoughts fully and painfully to ensure that he harbored no delusions about his place with Tom's wife. The thought calmed him and allowed him to regain his composure._

 _"I brought it, my- Tom?" Antonin faltered, hand halfway into his robes as he grimaced and swallowed. Tom bit back his smile. He found himself quite enjoying the Russian's predicament. His Lord had already admonished him for being overly formal, but now the situation clearly required groveling. Tom likely shouldn't enjoy the other man's discomfort so much, but he reveled in it. Unease could be so very delicious._

 _"On second thought, 'My Lord' has quite the ring to it, little mouse," Tom drawled, looking deep into the golden color of his fire whiskey._

 _"Tom!" his Gaza began to admonish, but he tightened his grip on her thigh in warning. It would not do to have her question him in front of his followers. Merlin knew she'd do it enough in private, but it could not be seen to be allowed in public._

 _Hermione's jaw tightened and her hands became claws but she nodded tightly. Antonin, for his part, sat perfectly straight and produced the goblin finger from his pocket. He held it aloft, eyes on the floor. To his credit, he only flinched slightly when Tom took the finger._

 _"Dismissed, little mouse," Tom stated with a bored tone, ignoring the man entirely as Antonin stood and bowed and his wife seethed beside him, her magic_ _beginning_ _to spark in her rage in the most intriguing of ways._

 _"Thank you, My Lord," Antonin said miserably just before he left the study and_ _apparated_ _off the property._

 _Hermione immediately stood and rounded on him, anger flailing wildly as it burst forth from her and ran up and down his skin like fingertips. Tom's lips lifted to expose his teeth in a feral, wicked grin._

* * *

"Accio Goblin Finger," Hermione said somewhat miserably before holding the severed, preserved digit aloft. It disappeared, presumably tucked into the creature's clothing and the couple stood in silence for a moment before Tom's Deliciae reached out and linked their fingers together.

"Well," she stated unnecessarily. "I suppose he's off. Best wake Lord Black, don't you think?"

Tom looked towards the unconscious body of the eldest Black brother and grimaced.


	19. Recoil

Orion Black awoke with a groan.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair and flinching. "I think I hit my head on the way down."

Hermione winced, dropping Tom's hand in favor of examining the man. She knelt down beside him and flicked her wand, running a series of diagnostic spells and finding nothing overly concerning.

"You'll be alright," she told him, casting a cooling charm she had personally learned to modify to place 'ice' on the bruised and sore spot. Orion pulled himself to his feet, eyes widening as the back of his head dramatically dropped in temperature. "You're not concussed; it's simply a small contusion. Any discomfort should be gone completely in a few days and we can get you a headache remedy once we leave here."

Orion paused, looking at her with slightly confused eyes before reverting back to a lesser version of his signature grin. "You're too kind, Lady Riddle," he said, eyes sweeping briefly over Tom before he turned back to his vault and walked towards a jewelry display.

For a moment, Hermione stalled, unsure why he was acting so bewildered before she remembered who she was dealing with. Her lips thinned as she looked over her shoulder at her husband. Tom, she suspected, often injured but never treated the wounds he made.

"There were other spells," she reminded him quietly, allowing her disapproval of his tactics to be made clear in her tone. Tom simply looked at her impassively and Hermione felt her annoyance go up another notch.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves before she followed Orion further into the vault. This whole outing had her anxiety peaked and it would not do anyone any favors if she let her emotions get the better of her. They were there simmering beneath the surface, and though she had a hold on herself, she was unsure how long her forced calm would last. Being in Gringotts made her feel slimy like she was wearing Bellatrix Lestrange's body all over again, and the sensation had not abated now that they were in the vault. She had counted her blessings when they weren't forced to walk by the inhumanely confined dragon; she suspected that seeing the unfortunate creature would have broken her reserve entirely.

Orion turned to her as she approached, pureblood mask firmly back in place, and Hermione barely repressed her eye roll.

"I've selected a few pieces here that I think might suit your tastes, my Lady," the Elder Black said, indicating 6 small velvet pouches with different jeweled objects sat upon them. "All Rose Gold, as we discussed, to avoid Wallie ever having worn it."

She bit her tongue at the wildly outrageous nickname Orion had given his wife again but did not comment on it.

"Do you see anything that suits your fancy?" He asked, flashing her that charming Black grin that likely melted the knickers off most witches. It reminded her so very much of Sirius's good days that she had to swallow heavily before she could answer.

"Well," she began, eying the pieces in front of her, "No necklaces, for one. I'm not one for layering and Lord Riddle would be... displeased if I did not wear his engagement present."

Her fingers drifted unconsciously to stroke along her emerald and Orion quickly banished the only necklace he had selected back to the case.

"We would not want that," he said quietly, a wry smile flashing across his face before he looked back at the offerings.

"I do like this one," Hermione admitted with a grin, pointing at a small ring nestled all the way to the right.

Orion looked at her for a moment with bemusement. "Really?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered with a frown, unsure why she now had to defend her choice when he had selected it himself.

Noticing her discomfort, Orion let out a small chuckle and shook his head. "I mean no disrespect, my Lady," he told her. "It's only that this-" he paused, pointing towards a large, ostentatious broach with a large black diamond and sapphire accents "-is worth somewhere between 2500 and 3000 galleons."

"This little bauble, by comparison," he continued, pointing towards the ring she had indicated interest in, "is perhaps worth 40 or 50 galleons."

Hermione wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the broach. "But that's ugly," she said before she truly thought about it, clapping her hand over her mouth when she realized what had blurted out as she flushed with embarrassment.

A momentary silence reigned before Orion burst into gruff, loud laughter. His shoulders shook as he guffawed, his already handsome face turning even more alluring in his mirth. Hermione reddened further and considered abandoning this particular part of the plan entirely.

"You are right, though," Orion finally said, still gasping for air as he banished the broach back to the case with a flick of his wrist. "It really is hideous. Most witches I know, however, would wear it anyway so as to flaunt its value, and by extension, theirs."

Having recovered herself, Hermione bit her lip and gave him a small nod. "I'm not most witches," she said quietly.

His eyes raked over her briefly, though there was no sexual attraction to his perusal before he offered a nod of his own. "No, it appears you are not," he agreed.

Orion picked up the ring she had indicated and held it out for her to look at. "This is 18k rose gold," he told her, "with a fairly thick band that is charmed to automatically size itself to the wearer's finger. The rose in the middle is 12k gold and the green, pink, and golden leaf accents are the same."

Hermione reached out and ran a finger along the beautiful little ring, surprised and pleased that she found something so to her tastes in the Black Family jewelry.

"It has all of your standard security charms on it," Orion continued. "Anti-theft, locator in case of it being misplaced, muggle deterrent-"

She pulled her hand back as if the ring had burned her. The Elder Black brother raised an eyebrow and stopped mid-sentence, watching her carefully as her mouth dried up.

"Muggle Deterrent?" she asked softly, keeping her eyes fixed on the ring and willing herself not to fidget. "What does that mean exactly?"

Orion laughed, but the sound seemed to her ears as if it was forced. "Surely, Lady Riddle, you know what a muggle deterrent is," he stated slowly.

"Yes, of course," Hermione said with a nod, forcing herself not take a step back or panic, panic, PANIC as the walls of the vault seemed to ripple and contract, closing in on her position in the middle. "I meant what specifically happens if a muggle picks it up by accident. The charms are vast and have many different effects."

Orion relaxed slightly. "Oh, I see," he said, shaking his head with a small smile. "In this case, if a muggle were to pick up or put on the ring, it would cause the pressure to gradually increase in their chest until their heart would explode. Mind you, that's just the common vernacular, something to make it sound enticing to the owner of the jewelry. We have to be cautious not to draw attention to any wizarding interference, of course. In truth, it mimics a muggle malady called an 'aortic rupture' and in the case of the charm, guarantees a rather severe tearing pain followed closely by death."

Hermione swallowed back the bile in her throat as Orion grinned at her, that same knicker's dropping grin as before.

"Remove the charm," she said hoarsely, not pausing to consider the ramifications of her words as the walls of the vault swam ever closer and her throat began to close up.

"Pardon?" Orion said, at once flabbergasted and suspicious as he looked her up and down once again.

"I said remove the charm!" she screamed, bending at the waist as her breath began to come in pants and her vision swam before her eyes. How did she always forget this; how repugnant these people could be, how they weren't _her_ people! They thought her parents were filth, they thought she was just as bad, and they would spit on her and torture her and rape her, given half the chance and-

Tom's hands wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her upright and into his chest as his voice rumbled through her consciousness. She couldn't parse out the words, but his tone soothed her. There was a thump behind her and a scream, but she ignored it in favor of burying her face in her husband's robes and breathing him in. Gradually, her breath returned to normal and her mind slowed down to its normal pace and she began to wonder just how badly she had just fucked up.

She lifted her head to glance up at Tom and try to get a sense of his reaction, but he wasn't looking at her. His focus was entirely on the man behind her and when Hermione turned in his arms, she saw Orion lying on the floor again, twitching with what she recognized as the after-effects of a crucio as he ground his jaw together. She thought she should be crying or angry at the sight of another's suffering, even Orion Black's. That's how she would have felt before all of this; before her trip to 1955. Instead, she just felt strangely numb, although she could feel the panic beating at the wall around her consciousness that Tom's touch built. Maybe that's where the sadness was as well.

Tom kept an arm around her waist, pulling her back to his chest while his other hand kept his wand firmly trained on Orion.

"Kneel," he said coldly, watching without any reaction as the man struggled to make his muscles work and force himself to his knees.

"My Lord," Orion grit out through pain-filled breaths, shaking while he braced himself with a hand on the floor.

"What happened, Deliciae?" Tom murmured to her, never taking his eyes from the man shaking before him.

Hermione paused, mind working frantically as she fought to figure a way out of this. Orion's viewpoints were repulsive, it was true, but the man had no reason to believe she didn't share them. Tom had warned her; anti-muggleborn was just a party line, but anti-muggle was the truth. She could steer him and his followers away from consciously hurting muggles, but they would never be accepted as more than animals, and that was at best.

She didn't want Tom to hurt him. Maybe it was stupid, but she never really wanted anyone to hurt anyone.

"Orion was telling me about the muggle deterrent charm on the jewelry," she said quietly. Tom's fingers dug into her waist ever so slightly before releasing.

"And?" he prompted, voice bland.

"I told him to remove it," Hermione continued, watching as Orion's jaw flexed.

"Hmmmm," Tom hummed, pressing a kiss to the skin behind her ear before he continued. She shivered, the need entreaty prickling at her skin even when she wished desperately that it would not. "And what did Lord Black say to that?"

"He said pardon, as if he has misheard me, and then I lost my temper," she finished quietly, leaning back into Tom's body unconsciously as the tension in the room ramped up. Orion opened his mouth as if to speak, anger flashing in his eyes before he seemed to think better of it and remained silent.

"Oh no, Orion," Tom drawled smoothly from beside her ear. "Please attempt to explain to me why my wife would have to repeat herself after giving you an order."

Orion blanched.

"I- My Lord, I was stunned," he said incredulously, eyes moving between the pair of them with something between confusion and rage. "I thought I misunderstood. Why on earth would our Lord's _wife_ disapprove of something that would keep dirty muggle hands from her belongings?!"

Tom sighed, flicking his wand and watching as Orion collapsed with a grunt. His eyes filled with pain as his muscles locked up, his face twisted into a grimace as he tried to remain silent in the face of the crucio. Hermione's hands turned to claws against Tom's forearm as the panic pushed at her harder.

"Please stop," she whispered, feeling the memory of the wracking effects of the torture curse rip through her veins. Hermione knew it was Tom's favorite way to punish his followers, but she didn't believe anyone ever deserved that sort of pain, not even the worst of the worst.

Tom paused, his eyes flicking down to his own chest briefly as he grimaced, but he lifted the curse at her behest. He waited for Orion to pull himself back to kneeling, the effects of the cruciatus so much worse this time as the man struggled and moaned.

"Thank your Lady," the Dark Lord said softly, "for begging mercy on your behalf."

Orion swallowed and tried to speak twice before he was able to force the words past his tightened throat.

"Thank you, my Lady," he said hoarsely, shaking as he attempted to stay upright.

For the second time today, Hermione swallowed back vomit for an entirely different reason and tried to move away from her husband. She had feelings for him, it was true, but watching this side of him reminded her of why she shouldn't. He was a bad, bad man and she was a little idiot to forget it. The cruelty was impossible for her to stomach. Tom hissed in her ear in warning and she pulled harder, stopping only when he breathed the Elder Black's name into her ear.

He wasn't wrong. He may be repugnant when he was like this, but Tom was still brilliant, and he was reminding her that they were putting on a show to fix her mistake. It took a great deal of self-control, but she stilled.

"Do you understand now, Orion?" Tom asked coldly. "My Gaza may be magically formidable, but she lacks the predisposition for cruelty. I realize that perhaps the details of what harm would befall a muggle would thrill Walburga or Elspeth, but would you discuss the same with Angua or Jocelyn?"

Orion's eyes fell shut as if he suddenly realized a grave mistake and Hermione's disgust was momentarily overwhelmed by her confusion.

"No, my Lord-"

"No, of course you wouldn't," Tom interrupted. "Because they are far too delicate to be exposed to such things."

She clawed into his arm as anger overwhelmed her. How could he possibly imply that she was somehow a demure little lady because she had morals and ethics? It did not make her constitution weak because she hadn't the stomach to watch cruelty; it made her a good person.

At the same time, the logical part of her brain that watched Orion wilt as if he had, indeed, made an error understood what Tom was doing. Sympathy for muggles among the pureblood elite was not to be tolerated, but the faintness of women, while unfortunate, was acceptable and expected. She despised the picture Tom was painting of her, but she knew why he was doing it.

Sixteen-year-old Hermione Granger would have let emotion get the better of her. She would have railed and screamed and damn the consequences.

Twenty-five-year-old Hermione Riddle took the hit to her pride and swallowed it down with the rest of the bile.

A tug on Hermione's dress alerted her that James had returned from his task, and if the way Tom stiffened behind her was any indication, he had been made aware as well. He leaned forward and brushed the curls away from her face, looking down into her eyes with his own frigid, dark ones.

"Why don't you go to the front of the vault to collect yourself for a moment, little wife?" He suggested with a small push to her lower back, sending her on unsteady feet towards the door. "I'll finish up with Orion here and we'll be on our way."

She paused before turning around and leaning in as if kissing his cheek.

"No more torture today, Tom," Hermione softly breathed into his ear, speaking quickly before he could bristle about being ordered about. "I cannot bear it."

Tom's jaw clenched and he clicked his tongue, but he nodded. She turned and wobbled to the front of the vault, waiting until she was out of sight of where Tom and Orion were before casting a 'muffliato.'

"James?" she inquired softly.

"Here," came his reply from her elbow, and she turned and quickly reversed the disillusionment charm. He was watching her closely, eyes sharp and filled with some unnamable emotion as he held out the copy of the manuscript.

"Thank you, James," Hermione said faintly, stuffing the papers into her beaded bag before bending down and holding it open so that the Pukwudgie could climb in.

James paused glancing from her to the bag before he lifted a foot and hovered it over the opening.

"My debt is paid," he said, looking meaningfully at Hermione.

"Yes," she confirmed, crouched over and faint as she waited for him to get all the way in.

"I will leave this vault and this bank," he continued, "and then _I_ will be free of him."

Hermione swallowed. His implication was clear; James would be free of Tom, but she would not. Perhaps the worst part of it is she no longer knew if she yearned to be free.

She forced herself to nod. "You'll be free of all of this, yes," she said quietly.

James stepped into the bag and looked up at her. "I've never been fond of magicals or no-majs, but Angua always liked Nietzsche," he said finally. "You do seem like a decent sort, for a human. Watch out for that abyss, Lady Riddle."

He disappeared into the bag and Hermione slowly snapped it closed and stood, the lightweight charm making the bag feel as if nothing had been added to it at all.

As Tom and Orion (who must have been walking under sheer force of will alone) came around the corner, Hermione heard those words echo in her head.

 _If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you._

Tom smiled at her, that small, fond, warm smile he only ever gave to her, and she shivered.

 **Quote is from Friedrich Nietzsche:**

 **"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."**

 **Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 146**


	20. Adrift

When they arrived back at Nidum Serpentis, Hermione had handed the manuscript off to Tom and immediately retreated to her study with the excuse of a headache. She couldn't lie to the bastard so the headache was real enough, but that, of course, was not why she retreated.

She just could not stand the thought of looking him in the eye after witnessing him crucioing someone who was almost a friend to him, or crucioing anyone really. She could not stand to see him and not feel what she knew she should.

She REALLY could not stand to see him and feel things that she knew she should not.

On any other day, Hermione would have been far too enthralled with the opportunity to explore the manuscript about the Philosopher's Stone to think of anything else but her brain was just not set to the task. Even her hunger for academic knowledge couldn't quell the tide of emotional upheaval she could not set aside.

Tom had to have felt it; the empathy entreaty would have practically guaranteed that. Thankfully he seemed far too captivated by the manuscript to pay her any mind at all and if he shot her one or two annoyed glances whilst rubbing his chest before they parted ways, it's not as if it was unexpected.

Though Tom did not come to bed that night, he did invite her to sleep on the couch in his study whilst he continued his thorough examination of their pilfered parchment. Knowing she needed the contact whether she wanted it or not, Hermione had settled with her head on his thigh and willed unconsciousness to claim her. She had reveled in the smell of him and the feel of him, despising herself for how he soothed her and slept fitfully through the night.

The next morning, the Riddles sat down to breakfast as they did every morning. This time, however, the silence stretched between them like a chasm as her mind. She watched her husband grow increasingly agitated as he rubbed at his chest until he set his spoon down with a clang.

"What is this, Gaza?" He asked with barely concealed annoyance, eyeing her over the edge of the Daily Prophet that he was shaking out irritably with his other hand. "An incredibly brief torture curse at half strength cannot possibly come as a shock to your _delicate sensibilities._ Have we not discussed this sort of thing at length not a month past? _"_

When she hadn't answered, his eyes had flashed with rage before shuttering and he had set the paper down with painful carefulness.

"Do you know what Orion would do to you if he were to find out you were muggleborn and you were _not_ under my protection?" Tom asked conversationally, picking up his coffee with precision and taking a long sip before continuing. "He would sneer, carefully put on his dragon skin gloves so as not to be sullied, and then drag you by the hair to the deepest depths of the Avery dungeons. Upon discovering your immunity to painful stimuli, Corvus would delight in exploring ticklish and itching sensations to discover how best to cause maddening discomfort."

"Orion, for his part," he continued, placing his mug back on the table and resuming taking small, practiced bites of his eggs, "would likely be the one to suggest forcing you to watch the torture of innocents after your display yesterday. He'd bring crup puppies and kneazles and perhaps a muggle child or two and suggest flaying as an alternative to the overused torture curse. He'd escort 'Wallie' there to watch you squirm and sob for a special anniversary present."

Hermione's eyes pricked as she stared down at her untouched beans and toast, willing herself not to cry and not to scream as Tom spoke.

He stood, abandoning his breakfast, and moved to leave the room to presumably finish getting ready for work. He paused at the doorway, rubbing a palm over his solar plexus once more before turning back towards where she sat with her head still bowed over her plate.

"None of that shall happen, of course," he said coolly, and she could feel his beautiful, frozen eyes boring into her skin as she refused to lift her own gaze to his. "Your heritage will not become known and even if it did, no one would dare harm you. You are _mine_ , and I take care of what is mine. Is that not what we said, Little Gaza? 'You are mine, and I will be yours.' I've made no secret of who I am or what I do. On the contrary, I assured you that under no circumstances will I change to suit another's sensitivities. You know exactly what I'm capable of, and furthermore, Orion Black is far from an innocent."

Hermione swallowed heavily and stood on shaky legs, finally raising her head to stare at him across the table where she braced herself with her palms. She tried to muster up the hate she used to feel, the distaste: she could not find it. In its place, she found emotions she refused to name and self-loathing for feeling them.

"You are mine, and I will be yours," she repeated quietly, staring into his handsome face. "How could I have forgotten, when I made that claim, that I was claiming a _monster_?"

She meant the words to be cutting. The devotion entreaty wouldn't beat at her unless she undermined his welfare and so she may be compelled to fix the effect of her words, but she could still say them, and she wanted to. She wanted him to feel her disapproval, her disgust at his choice to not only torture another human being but to have no remorse for doing so. She wanted to hurt him, to poke a wound into what they had become. She wanted to kill that fond smile he sometimes sent to her, the warmth he held only for _her_ , because what did it say about who she was that she was the only person to warm the heart of the Dark Lord?

Tom simply shrugged. "What is a monster but a creature larger and stronger than the rest, and unafraid to use those assets to meet its goals?" He asked. "You cannot shame me, little wife, and remorse is quite beyond my reach or interest. Orion questioned you, he ignored your directive, and he became suspicious of your sympathies. If anguish and manipulation are the cost of ensuring your safety, Deliciae, I will deal suffering out in whatever degree is required without compunction or hesitation. I will do so every single time I deem it wise, whether you approve or not."

What little anger she had managed to muster drained from Hermione's body, leaving her with only an ache in her heart and exhaustion. "Your brand of devotion is going to destroy me, Tom," she whispered hopelessly.

He crossed the kitchen, coming to stand beside her before pulling her into his chest. His lips caressed her forehead in a tender approximation of a kiss, scorching her skin just as he always did, and she felt tears finally leak down her cheeks as his hand buried itself in her hair.

"I suggest that you find a way to keep that from happening, Gaza," Tom breathed into the skin of her forehead. Her nerves sang at the contact and her soul reached for his all while her mind reeled backwards. "If you lose your way, I will have no choice but to lead you. If you allow me to destroy you, I will be compelled to remold the clay of your person and you might not like what I make of you."

He left her there, with tears streaming down her cheeks in the hearth of their home, to figure out how to do as he suggested. Hermione retreated to their bedroom after he left for work and opened the closet, pulling out the book of hair charms and a new set of hair combs as she slowly prepared to floo away from the house.

'I'm already lost,' she thought blankly as she pulled on her pureblood appropriate shoes and pureblood appropriate stockings and pureblood appropriate dress.

'I'm already lost,' she thought as she secured her wand in her hair and walked towards the main floo in the entryway.

'I'm lost,' she thought as the flames turned green and she stepped into them.

"Dolohov Manor," Hermione said softly.

She had been already been destroyed, she realized distantly as she stumbled out into the dark tea room of Antonin's house. She had misplaced every piece of herself, had decimated all the plans she had ever made, the moment she fell in love with a monster.

She sat slumped down on the stone floor in front of the fireplace for five minutes before Antonin found her.

"Kotik?" his voice rang out in the room. There was a pause, a muffled curse, and then the curtains that had been pulled tight opened seemingly of their own accord. Sunlight streamed in and Hermione looked up from her spot on the floor with wet eyes and a quiver to her lip.

Antonin crouched in front of her, reaching out to take her upper arms in his hands and pull her to her feet.

"My lady, are you injured?" He breathed, eyes roving over her form as if he expected to find some sort of wound. "I was not in residence this morning but the wards alerted me that someone with access had come through the floo."

Hermione swallowed and looked up at the Death Eater in front of her with red, swollen eyes. She didn't have Harry or Ron here. She didn't have her parents or McGonagall, or even Neville or Luna or Ginny. She thought she might have Calliope, maybe even Angua and Joce, but she wasn't sure.

The only two people she was sure of here, that she was sure were _hers_ , were Tom Riddle and Antonin Dolohov.

With a wail that would not have been out of place coming from Hermione Granger ten years ago, she threw herself into his arms and crumpled. Antonin caught her with a startled sound, freezing momentarily before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the loveseat. He tried to settle her next to him and while she let him, she still clung like a small child, lost and overwhelmed in the tide of her upset. He allowed her to settle in the curve of his shoulder and wet his neck.

He ran his hand up and down her back, making soothing coos and clucks until, exhausted, Hermione sat simply hiccupping while she clung to his broad shoulders. He allowed her a few more moments to collect herself before Antonin finally spoke.

"Kotik. Should I call Tom?" he asked softly, still running his hand over her spine in the way one soothes a little one from nightmares.

"Please don't," she whispered, and he stiffened beneath her.

"Did he hurt you, my Lady?" Antonin queried, voice carefully controlled and hand never faltering despite the way his muscles had tightened.

Hermione sighed.

"And if he had?" she asked him, clearing her throat when the words came out thick and snotty. "You are as bound to him as you are to me."

Antonin paused, clearly unsure about whether to speak or not, before he slumped with a sigh. "I am not," he admitted, and Hermione lifted her head to look into his eyes even as her brow furrowed with confusion. "I assumed that is how this would work but..."

He trailed off before continuing. "Do you not feel it?" he asked with a frown. "Or, I suppose you would not, since you do not have the bond caused by the Dark Mark. The bond with the Dark Lord, it- well, it is to ensure loyalty. It ties us to him, allows him to call to us and find us, and should alert him to deception or someone turning traitor."

Antonin sighed again and rubbed his free hand across his forehead. "But it is imperfect," he explained. "The bond the Dark Mark creates is passive for the most part and therefore, if an active bond exists, it can usurp it. Without a higher bond, the mark would trigger as normal at the first sign of treason, but a higher bond disrupts the process. I did not know this, of course, until I pledged myself to you, but I am an expert of dark curses and the mark is very similar to a curse. Since I felt the shift within myself, I have been researching."

"So what would happen if you were to find your two vows to be in conflict with one another?" Hermione asked, momentarily pulled from her despair in the face of academic discovery.

"I would die," Antonin answered bluntly, and she shrunk backwards from him at the frankness of his answer. "That much I knew, Kotik, so worry not. You are the Dark Lord's wife, his very own, and so I doubt that I will ever find myself in such a position. What I did not know was that while I would die, yes, it would be in fulfilling my vow to you. I would not have a choice, as it were, as to who to betray. My vow to you requires that I give my life to protect you, so in such a circumstance, I would do what you asked. Though the mark would not immediately kill me, as it is my lesser bond, the Dark Lord's knowledge of the betrayal could potentially force it into activating. As soon as he knew, the Dark Mark's nastier attributes could be initiated from his side of it and I would die."

Immediately her soul, likely her piece of their bond, rebelled at the idea of his death and she placed a hand on the side of his head with her thumb at his temple. "I would not allow that to happen," she said firmly.

"I should hope you would not wish it," Antonin said with a small smile. "But I am, as they say, at your absolute mercy. So, I must ask once more Kotik: did he hurt you?"

Reminded of why she was here and so upset in the first place, Hermione immediately slumped, curling back into his shoulder. "No," she answered quietly. "He did not hurt me."

Antonin nodded, his hand moving to begin sweeping her spine again in that comforting, soothing motion, and her eyes pricked once more. "Will you tell me what happened then?" He asked.

And she did. Once Hermione began talking, it seemed she was unable to stop and she found herself telling him absolutely everything. Perhaps their bond created a false sense of intimacy and safety or perhaps she was just so tired of lying, of having no one to confide in except Lord Voldemort, but her mouth ran away with her and she pushed away every single warning signal that sprang up in her head.

She talked.

She talked about her timeline, the time she truly belonged to, and the war. She talked about Ron and Harry, in more detail than she had ever confided in Tom out of fear of what he would do with that information. She talked about Hogwarts, about rebuilding the time turner and coming back to 1955. She talked about her plans and her ambitions, the position Tom had offered her as well as the reason that she took it, and the repercussions of that choice in the form of the entreaties that chained her.

And finally, she talked about the way she felt for him, the distaste she held for his actions that she desperately tried to cling to as her fondness for the man grew. She confided her fears that the need entreaty had dug deeper than she had ever anticipated, that she could no longer find loathing for him in spite of the atrocities he could commit. Lastly, she told him her greatest shame and the reason she had come to him, heart a flayed and open wound this morning as she wept on the stone floor of Dolohov Manor.

She had fallen in love with the Dark Lord and she still couldn't reconcile the evil that permeated his being with that truth.

When Hermione finished confessing her myriad of worries and sins, when finally she took a breath, she allowed the warning sirens in her head to crash into her consciousness as she pulled her wand from her hair. She _needed_ someone she could trust, she needed someone to know her in this time, but she wasn't stupid. Tom had described Antonin as more open than the other Death Eaters, but he had joined the organization all the same. He was a morally ambiguous man at best and if she needed to obliviate him, she would.

She leaned back from her spot at his side, swiftly bringing her wand up to his temple where her thumb had been not so very long ago and stared into his eyes. Antonin looked back, steady and calm with a softness in his gaze and his hand limp on her back.

"Come, Kotik," he murmured, never breaking eye contact or moving to defend himself even with the tip of her wand pressed against his skin. "You know I cannot harm you. You know that I have sworn to love all that you love and shun all that you shun. I am yours, to do with as you see fit. If you need know my mind, that knowledge is yours for the taking."

Silently, Hermione ghosted into the depths of his consciousness and easily arrived at a heavily fortified iron gate. She watched the gate swing open and found herself awash in Antonin's thoughts, impressions, and emotions.

His devotion bathed her, his fondness overwhelmed her, but she softly set it aside. Emotions could be deceiving and could be used as subterfuge if one drowned in them. She pushed deeper.

There was not hatred of muggles, though no fondness either. Muggles, to Antonin, were inconsequential and outside his purview. Tom and he shared the belief that magical blood was magical blood, and a person ceased to be a muggle as soon as their core developed.

What drew him to the Death Eater's, she wondered. The impression of her question whispered into his consciousness and memories came to her in answer.

 _The smell of honey cakes in a kitchen in Russia. Antonin playing with a_ _kneazle_ _on a carpet in front of the_ _floo_ _while his mother pulls the pastry from the oven. His father comes in from the garden with a smile for him and plants a kiss on his mother's cheek..._

 _The stench of pus and blood and the screams coming from his parent's room down the hall. A frazzled_ _mediwitch's_ _assistant runs into the hallway with her arms full of bloodied bandages. She sees him, a little boy huddled in the corner, and forces a smile..._

 _A funeral..._

Hermione frowned internally and her hand tightened on Antonin's arm. Her heart hurt for him.

 _Moving to Britain at 9 years old when his mother marries a poor but influential_ _man with a good name_ _. Finally seeing Dolohov Manor and learning he'll still be living amongst his blood's magical heritage. A little girl with auburn pigtails running down a long white hallway, hair streaming behind her as she giggles and Antonin watches. Her name is Christine. Always wishing for siblings and never having them; he loves his little 8_ _-year-_ _old half-blood, step-sister almost immediately..._

 _B_ _eing thrilled to_ _be_ _accepted into Slytherin only to find that in Britain, Slytherins_ _a_ _re considered DARK and th_ _is i_ _s_ _a bad thing._ _.._

 _Asking his mother why dark magic_ _i_ _s celebrated in Russia but reviled in Brit_ _ai_ _n and the twinkle in her eye when she sen_ _ds_ _him to the library of his own home to find his answer_ _..._

 _His first real taste of blood prejudice when Christine arrives at Hogwarts in his second year and joins him at the Slytherin table. The jeers and the hatred that he can only sometimes shield her from..._

Sighing, Hermione allowed herself to be pulled further along. She was painfully familiar with the effects of blood prejudice and her heart went out to the little first year in a pit of snakes where over half would despise her for her blood alone.

 _Starting to truly spend time with Tom Riddle and his group of friends. Being fascinated by the boy's knowledge and ability with magic. Antonin taking a chance and sharing his views on how limited what they are learning i_ _n classes i_ _s, how light-washed it is, and watching Tom smile..._

 _Books on dark magic, books on curses, books on everything Antonin has ever been interested in. Drowning in magical theory on light, grey, and dark magics and loving it. Study groups with other, like-minded Slytherins and finally feeling like he belongs, like these boys are his intellectual equals..._

 _Learning that Tom is less interested in theory and more interested in practice. Watching him demonstrate unforgivable curses on mice, then cats, then Nott and Avery. He feels his horror and how it diminishes each time he watches, replaced by academic curiosity. How does the Imperius Curse actually work? What makes someone actually compelled to follow the commands? After he interrupts a session to ask what the effects of combining a_ _cruciatus_ _and_ _imper_ _i_ _us_ _concurrently might be, if a person could fight through the pain to follow orders or not, Tom inducts him officially into the Knights of Walpurgis..._

Hermione choked, revulsion coursing through her, but Antonin pushed forward relentlessly.

 _Tom introducing the Knights to his basilisk. Myrtle Warren dies and Antonin recoils. Men are men and animals are animals, but you do not harm women or children. It's a belief that he cannot shake, a moral he cannot bury, and he pulls away from Tom..._

 _Christine knocking on his dorm door, eyes unfocused with her dress torn and blood on her thighs._ _Dippet_ _examining her, finding the telltale signs of_ _obliviation_ _. The headmaster equivocating._ _There is nothing he can legally do_ _,_ _o_ _bliviated memory restoration is inadmissible in the_ _Wizengamot_ _and with the school board, so what's the purpose of her remembering? The rage that consumes_ _Antonin_ _as his sister flinches from everyone, scared of every boy..._

 _Tom spending hours staring into Christine's eyes, carefully and meticulously reassembling her memory. The care he takes with her, the gentleness he employs as he sifts through the spell and brings back_ _just enough of that night so they know who hurt her..._

Antonin pushed at her consciousness, willing her back and out of his head and she allowed him to. She was horrified by what he showed her, horrified at his choices and what had befallen his sister and-

"Tom found them," Antonin said, looking past her and into the flames in the fireplace as he spoke. "And when their blood ran and they screamed out in pain as I watched when he sought justice _for me_ , I realized that there were only two sides to be had. Tom Riddle takes care of what's his; he's always said it and he proved it to be the truth."

His eyes moved back to hers and she was surprised that they could be so open and so warm and yet he could still discuss torture as one would discuss tea. It was exceedingly disconcerting, perhaps even more so than Tom's icy gaze.

"In the world we are building, women and children are going to get hurt," he continued, his eyes boring into hers as he willed her into understanding. "Half-bloods and muggleborns are going to get hurt. The only way to truly protect my women and children, my half-bloods and muggleborns, is to be on the side of the winners. The only way to protect them is to be one of Tom's. Christine is safe and married to a Goyle cousin who adores her in America. That is because of my association with Tom. Many women go to their marriage beds without their innocence intact, but everyone knew, beyond any doubt, that Christine was... 'ruined'."

His jaw clenched and he swallowed down anger before he continued. "Tom commanded Malfoy and Nott to elevate Charles Goyle to a level of wealth and influence which was deserving of Christine," he continued. "He's new money and they are new to American society, but no one knows how low born he is there and no one knows what happened to her. He did that for me, to secure my loyalty, and it worked. I am loyal."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, what she was not sure, but Antonin cut her off. "Make no mistake, Kotik," he said firmly. "I am a bad man. I felt your horror, but torture and the pain of other men does not disgust me. My magic is dark, my interests are dark, and while I take no pleasure in inflicting pain, I am not averse to it either."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "But now I must love what you love and shun what you shun," he said quietly. "You may, if you choose, create that morality within me. It will greatly impede my ability to please the Dark Lord, but... as I said, I am at your mercy. You have shown me your secrets, and so I have shown you mine. Do with me as you will."

Hermione's mouth snapped shut as she stared at the man in front of her. He kept his eyes closed, his hands relaxed where she still sat perched in the cradle of his arm, as he waited again for her judgment. And it was judgment because if she ruined Antonin's ability to be useful to Tom, the Dark Lord would have no compunction about killing him. She wondered who he had thought she was when he first pledged himself to her. How different was she from what he had hoped, from what he had planned? She could destroy him and he knew it, and yet he simply sat and waited for her to do so.

"Are you disappointed?" she found herself asking. "Now that you know who I really am?"

A small smile played on Antonin's lips, but he kept his eyes closed. "No, Kotik," he said with a chuckle. "I am not disappointed. Perhaps it is more dangerous for me that you are who you are, but I find myself glad that you are not like Tom, not like me. We have enough dark souls in the Death Eaters. Perhaps a lighter one will bring some stars to the night we plan to blanket Britain with. Perhaps in that darkness, you will be the moon that keeps us all from going blind."

Hermione bit her lip, charmed by his poetic answer in spite of herself. "Maybe," she ventured. "But you are part of that night, Antonin, and I doubt Tom would tolerate another moon. It would be unwise to create moral qualms within you that would quelch your ability to perform the tasks you are assigned, and I have sworn to care for you. I will keep my vow. Protect me, keep my confidences, and do what I ask of you when I seek you out. I hope you realize now that you truly know me how challenging our bond might be for you ultimately."

Antonin's eyes opened and he smiled at her. "Ah, but what is life without a challenge?" He teased. His smile faded away and he frowned slightly. "Perhaps when you tell the Dark Lord that you have told me your true identity, you could fail to mention you did so while seated practically on top of me."

Hermione laughed. "I'm hardly on top of you. Although, he has been strangely possessive when it comes to you," she allowed, moving to stand and smooth down her skirts. "It's almost as if he thinks you're going to try to steal me away."

"He thinks I'm falling in love with you," Antonin said bluntly, still seated on the loveseat. "And Tom does not share."

She paused, momentarily stunned before glancing out of the corner of her eye at the wizard. She didn't think she had misread this so badly, but-

"Worry not, Kotik," he said with a smirk. "You are, as they say, not my type. You are a beautiful woman, but I only find women pleasing in the aesthetic sense. My tastes run in other directions."

"Oh," Hermione said a bit blankly. She supposed when the Death Eaters had been shooting curses at her and trying to kill her in her time, she'd never really considered their orientation. The concerns for staying alive had been much more prominent.

"Where is Tom right now?" Antonin asked.

She startled, pulled from her musings on the past. "He's at work," she answered.

"Well, it looks to be early afternoon," he sighed, rising from the couch and moving towards the doorway. "And I think we got distracted from your original purpose. I don't suppose you got what you were looking for in reference to your emotional upheaval?"

Hermione groaned, feeling her stomach tighten as her thoughts turned back to her husband. "No, I did not," she grumbled. "I do feel better just for talking about it, but Tom will be home in a few hours and I'm still... confused."

Her head was already aching from the need entreaty, but she still had time before the problems really began and she'd take the pain over seeing Lord Voldemort before she had found some kind of temporary peace with her current emotional state.

"Come into the kitchen and we'll have some lunch," Antonin suggested, leading her out into a hallway.

 **Playlist for Chapters 11-20**

 **Chapter 11: Bite Your Kiss by Diamonte**

 **Chapter 12: You don't own me by Lesley Gore**

 **Chapter 13: If I Had A Heart by Fever Ray**

 **Chapter 14: Wicked Game Cover by Stone Sour**

 **Chapter 15: Our Demons (feat. Aja Volkman) by The Glitch Mob**

 **Chapter 16: All The King's Horses by Karmina**

 **Chapter 17: Do You Really Want It? by Nothing More**

 **Chapter 18: I'm a Ruler (feat. Ruby Amanfu)**

 **Chapter 19: Hope is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman like Me to Have by Lana Del Rey**

 **Chapter 20: From Eden by Hozier**


	21. Insight

Lunch had been... illuminating.

Hermione had expected Antonin to be sympathetic. After all, he was her friend, her sworn wizard, and he of all people understood just how evil Tom could be.

Instead, he had pointed out the flaws in her logic with brutal efficiency.

"I just confessed to having no qualms about torture," he'd told her as they sat across from one another at one end of a long, formal dining table. "I told you how drawn to dark magic I am and how my interest in dark curses began. And yet you accepted this, accepted me."

"Yes," she'd allowed, pausing with her spoon full of stew halfway to her mouth. "But it's different, it-"

"Is it?" Antonin interrupted as he carelessly cut into a piece of chicken. "Tom has always been drawn to the darkest of magics; it's part of his very soul. He employs the infliction of pain on others as a tool, but rarely as a sport. He's stronger than me, magically speaking, but I don't see so very many differences between the two of us. Perhaps the only real difference, aside from his being significantly more charismatic than I could ever hope to be, is my refusal to harm those I was taught were worthy of protection."

"But that _is_ an important distinction," Hermione had began, but he'd cut her off again.

"It's a _taught_ distinction," Antonin said firmly. "One Tom did not have the benefit of."

"Fine," she growled out at him. "I understand your loyalty and I understand your points, but this does not address the issue at hand. His choices can be utterly nightmarish, his ethics are non-existent, and yet I have feelings for him. I'm a _good_ person, Antonin, I am. Or, at least, I try very hard to be. How do I reconcile that?"

He sighed and set down his utensils, leaning back in his chair as he eyed her with slight exasperation. "You're in love with him," Antonin reminded her bluntly, ignoring her flinch at his words. "There is no use in you dancing around that reality. In addition, you seem to believe this is a fact of great import as if people do not fall in love every single day. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, my Lady, but your great love is nothing special."

Hermione had sputtered in outrage, slamming her spoon down so hard in her bowl that the stew sloshed over the side.

"Being infatuated with Lord Voldemort is nothing special?!" she hissed, leaning forward towards him over the table. "I came back to change the world, not to become enraptured by a barbaric _arsehole_ who lacks even the most basic of moralities! Is he charming? Yes. Is he prepossessing? Yes. But there are many more important attributes for a person to possess than general allure and I have plans, damn it! I have contingencies and research and goals that need to be accomplished and nowhere in any of the many parchments detailing those things was there a bullet point reminding me to fall for Tom Riddle!"

Antonin tapped his index finger against the mahogany table impatiently. "And?" he queried. "Now you love the fiend you came back in time to temper. How does this impede your ability to do what you set out to do? You are so busy self-flagellating for feelings you cannot control, you've decided that your original designs are in flames all around you, made impossible in the wake of your emotions. But are they truly? Or are you simply convinced that to love Tom Riddle is the evilest of sins, and in doing so, you sin too deeply to ever do good again?"

She had arrived back home with the distinct feeling that came after a scolding as a child. Which was absolutely ridiculous, because Tom was the one who had tortured a man and she was the one who loved him anyway. Both she and the Dark Lord deserved her derision.

Scowling, Hermione stripped off her outer robes and climbed the stairs up to her personal study. Antonin was wrong, of course. Her husband had enough of her just from the need and devotion entreaties; she never should have handed him her heart as well. Upon arriving, she closed the door firmly behind her and layered ward after ward to keep away any disturbances. She turned away when she was done, spelling her hair up into a haphazard bun and ignoring the gloomy aura her normally sunny room was giving off, no doubt due to the pouring rain outside. A quick 'dies' informed her that the time was half-past one.

She chewed on her lower lip as she moved toward her drawing desk, kicking off her heels and stripping off her stockings on the way, before settling down in front of it. Tom had left that morning around eight so she had until six in the evening before the dizziness from the need entreaty would set in, assuming the symptom manifested as it historically had. He would be home around five but would likely leave her be if he saw warding on her door unless her necklace sent a distress pulse.

With that in mind, Hermione banished the bind rune she had been working on in her spare time and took out a fresh sheet of parchment on which to take notes. It was time to take stock of the state of things and see what she could salvage of the life she was making here in light of this newest development.

An hour passed, then two, and she worked diligently on listing out her original goals, new additions, and how she had intended to accomplish them. Of course, she had assumed that her death would be imminent, so things were quite different now than they had been when she had first set her mind to this task. Time passed and her quill scratched and her brain fired off and as she planned and organized and plotted, she found herself falling into old rhythms.

Hermione's shoulders loosened, the anxious tapping of her foot slowed, and she sunk into the familiar melody of study. This was where she was most comfortable, the feeling reminiscent of taking a bath at the perfect temperature or pulling on a jumper long worn and long loved. As her head cleared and she settled back into her own skin, her quill stilled on the parchment and she found herself staring out her bay window with unfocused eyes.

 _This_ is what she'd been longing for; she had been missing _herself_.

Quietly, Hermione set down her quill and moved across the room to settle in the window seat. The forest outside Nidum Serpentis was beautiful as ever and as the rain fell down beyond the window, she seized onto the momentary silence of emotional turmoil to finally do what she truly did best and ruminate on her situation. She could sort this out, _she could_ , and that quiet confidence in her ability to figure anything out if she just applied her mind hard enough was a welcome departure from the frantic mental upheaval that had been her constant companion recently.

Tom was a problem, of course. But then, as soon as that thought occurred to her, she paused to consider if it was actually valid. Was he really an impediment? Her eyes flashed back to her list of stated goals, the ones she had for herself when she came back in time.

She had intended to find Tom Riddle in the past.

She had intended to ensure that he succeeded with enough of his goals to eliminate the need for a war.

She had intended to secure his stability so that he would never unleash his madness on wizarding Britain.

And she had intended to ensure a better status for muggleborns in the new world order.

During her time in 1955, she had added onto those original objectives. She had agreed to provide Tom with information on Horcruxes, with the express purpose of keeping him from making any more. She had promised to try to prevent him from ever becoming incorporeal. She conceded to giving him pertinent information on Death Eaters and to walk him through the political future of Britain, all in the name of keeping war from ever becoming necessary. She had sworn to bring a political coup in place of war instead. And she had agreed to make his objectives of securing true immortality and elevation of his personal status her own objectives as well.

Had he, in any way, actually hindered any of that from becoming a reality?

The answer, she realized with a jolt, was no. Tom Riddle was not in her way. She had already found him (accomplishing her very first and perhaps easiest objective) and he, too, did not seek to bring war. It was inefficient to battle for power, after all, when you could quietly steal it from under people's noses instead.

He wanted authority and he wanted the British Ministry and he wanted to stay sane. He had offered her a position that would afford her the ability to improve the lot of muggleborns once they consolidated their political power and he had a plan to do that. He shared his prospective machinations with her, had allowed her to weigh in on them, and when she had presented logical arguments, had adjusted his plots according to her wishes.

And that was perhaps the biggest difference between Tom Riddle and the Lord Voldemort of her time. Lord Voldemort brought agony and destruction to all of wizarding England and he reveled in it. He wanted to see the suffering of others and drown in their pleas for mercy.

To Tom Riddle, the death and distress of the populace was incidental and while he did not demure from the creation of suffering, he did not actively seek it either. He gravitated to violence out of habit, because it was the most familiar of his tools aside from manipulation, but he did not enjoy it for its own sake. He enjoyed submission, he enjoyed victory, but the means were fluid. If another path was brought to his attention and it was equally effective, he would take it, if for only one reason.

He would take the path of less blood _for her_.

No, she admitted to herself with a sense of growing annoyance that maybe, just maybe, Antonin had a point. The only person currently in Hermione Riddle's way appeared to be Hermione Granger.

And that's what it really came down to, wasn't it? She saw herself as a light witch. Even when she made decisions that others would consider cruel, she did it for the light. She did it for Harry and Ron and to ensure that good would conquer evil.

She had always found the degree to which the Order limited their spell casting maddening. It was positively idiotic to send back an 'expelliarmus' against an 'avada,' an 'incarcerous' against a 'sectumsempra.' But that was what was right and good, that was what was permitted, and she had not wanted to be dark. So she'd followed the rules even when it hurt to do so; she'd taken the hits from Death Eaters when she could have dealt them.

But for all that she had tried to be light, she never really had been fully successful. Not in that selfless, guileless way Harry had been; not in that brave, passionate way Ron had been. It had fallen to her to be vicious where they could not, to be Slytherin when they could not set aside the Gryffindor, and she had gotten down in the dirt and gotten filthy to keep them clean every time it was necessary.

She did not regret it, mind, and she would do it again. Her boys had not asked it of her and they had not judged her for it; they had simply not been built for that kind of work. She wouldn't change that bit of protection she had been able to offer them-

Hermione pressed a hand to her stomach as she was struck by the realization that Tom felt the same, but for _her_. He was willing to do the 'dirty' work that he deemed necessary, the things that she would not do. The difference was that she did judge him for it, and she judged him harshly.

It was colder comfort than she would have thought it would be to remind herself she was morally in the right.

Things were different here than they had been with Ron and Harry in more ways than one. She wasn't the one who was willing to make questionable choices any longer because she wasn't surrounded by light witches and wizards. Her version of questionable morality was very different from that of her current colleagues. All around her was the allure of dark magic and it made her feel threatened and on the outside all over again because that kind of magic did not fit her either.

It was that realization, more than anything, that allowed Hermione to breathe deeply and settle back further into the cushions of the seat. She may not be light, but she wasn't dark either.

She thought back to her bonding, when her magic had surged out and revealed itself. It had been a shimmery silver, not with the airy feeling of light magic nor the seductive tenor of dark, but with its own nuances and subtle flavors. At the time, she had ignored the implications of that. There had been far too many other considerations to focus on for her to take the time to truly absorb what the feel of her magic meant. But now, she allowed herself no further denials. Her magic was only a shade lighter than the Lestrange Family magic she had gotten a brief taste of at Rabastan's birthday party.

Brief panic at that realization began to surge through her, but she quickly quelled it. _That_ was what her problem was and it was not helping her to do what she needed to. She had been so desperate to avoid her feelings for Tom that she had become obsessed with watching what she saw as her downfall. His magic was midnight blue before it melded with hers, as alluring and dark as a siren's song, and she had been convinced if she didn't actively resist with every ounce of her being, that magic would consume her.

She had once thought that it would be a constant effort not to drown in the dark ocean that was Tom's depths, but in an effort to flail against her own emotions, she had thrown herself into those waters with no aid from anyone else. It was now clear that fighting her affection for him, fighting against his charisma and the way his soul called to hers, had been the very thing pulling her under. He hadn't even done anything to cause it aside from being unapologetically himself; Hermione had been floundering under her weight alone.

If she would just cease thrashing about like a distressed damsel, she thought with more than a little annoyance at her own person, she just might float.

With a determined air, Hermione rose to her feet and moved back towards her drawing desk. She leaned over and examined the parchment once more to make sure it was complete, refamiliarizing herself with the things she needed to focus on before banishing it to the pile that held all her other works-in-progress and notes.

Though she was loathe to admit it (and likely would not do so to his face,) Antonin was right. People fell in love every day and there was nothing special about her falling in love with Tom Riddle. He wasn't her enemy and though he would never be a good man, maybe he didn't need to be. She wasn't entirely good herself, that was true, but maybe she was good _enough_ for the both of them.

Turning back towards the main house, she cast a quick 'dies,' determining it was quarter till five. She flicked her wand absentmindedly for a few minutes to bring down the wards.

Despite how she had lost herself recently, Hermione was, at her core, nothing if not pragmatic. 'Fighting him nearly wrecked me,' she thought with only a little hesitation as she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. 'Let's see what loving him can do.'

She walked down to the kitchen, stopping in long enough to ask Gilmy to prepare a light supper of sandwiches and other finger foods on a tray, before settling herself on the bottom stair to await her husband's arrival. She smoothed her skirt over her bare thighs, her stockings and heels still abandoned somewhere in her study upstairs, and pressed her toes into the smooth wood of the floor to ground herself.

Hermione had been waiting for only a few minutes when she felt the wards ripple, announcing the arrival of the Master of the house. Her stomach writhed with nerves but she ignored it as she lingered in the front room that served as a combination parlor and entrance hall, watching the door as she bit her lip until it was red and raw.

Tom strode through the front door, greeting her positioning on the stair with a raised brow. Gilmy rushed in to take his outer robes, which he provided without comment, before turning his attention back to her.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione stood quickly and crossed to him, twining her fingers with his as she began to pull him back towards the stairs. She could not quite bite back the sigh of relief that escaped her as her headache ebbed at his touch but she hoped he wouldn't comment on it. The need entreaty was the least of her current concerns.

"Gaza?" Tom inquired lightly as he allowed her to lead him to the second floor.

"Could you ask Gilmy to bring the dinner tray up to your study?" She asked instead of addressing his unspoken question. "You know she won't do it without your express permission and I thought you could show me what you learned from the Philosopher's Stone manuscript while we ate. Perhaps afterward we could continue your research?"

When they reached the second floor, Tom twisted so that he grasped her wrist instead of her fingers and pulled her around to face him. He walked her backward until she found her spine pressed to the wall and his body crowding her own.

"I believe, Deliciae," he said with a penetrating gaze, resting his forearms on either side of her head as he caged her in, "that you were quite infuriated with me this morning. I find myself curious as to what would cause your demeanor to change so drastically between then and now."

Hermione rested her palms on his chest, sliding her hands along the slight creases in his crisp, white button-down and up to his shoulders. The urge to touch him was too great to fight and while she should have minded him invading her space without so much as a by-your-leave, she didn't. Maybe that was part of what she liked about him, the way he never felt it necessary to ask permission before doing exactly what he wanted. She certainly envied him that confidence, if nothing else.

Tom's eyes fell to half-mast at her touch and she smiled slightly at the sight.

"I went to see a friend and did quite a bit of thinking," she admitted, her voice taking on a breathy quality as he dipped his head down to kiss along her pulse.

"Which friend?" he asked, biting at her carotid artery in a way that made her shiver. The danger of his teeth so close to her life's blood was strangely intoxicating, and the chuckle that rumbled through his chest suggested he knew that.

"Antonin," she answered, and she felt the way his whole body tensed against hers at the man's name. She smacked lightly at his back and scowled.

"He's not interested in me like that, Tom," Hermione scolded, soothing her harsh tone with little pets to his shoulder blades. "He's not interested in _women_ like that."

Tom scoffed before pulling back to thread his fingers through her hair, ruining her bun as he pulled her curls free. He met her gaze with his own icy stare and she felt pinned by those eyes, skewered by their beauty and the way they could simultaneously burn and freeze her.

"Sexuality is so very fluid, little wife," he said, one eyebrow tipping up as if he was surprised by that not occurring to her. "Not for everyone, of course, but for many. I have been inside his mind. The mouseling is not nearly so rigid in his preferences as he likes to believe he is."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the disdainful way Tom said Antonin's nickname but chose not to comment. "It doesn't really matter anyway, you know," she informed him. "I'm bound to you and I have no interest in other men. Aside from that, I needed to talk to someone and he's sworn to keep both me and my secrets safe."

She brought her fingers up to toy with his hair just as he was with hers, grinning at the way his eyes melted into nearly black pools when she tugged hard enough to send little stings dancing along his scalp. She hesitated but ultimately, Tom was going to find out anyway.

"I needed someone other than you to _truly_ know me here," she finished.

The way that his entire body tightened and magic exploded outward from her husband's form in a fit of rage made her immediately question her decision to tell him the entirety of her conversation with her sworn wizard. The wall sconces a few feet to the right of them folded in on themselves with a whine as the strength of his magic crumbled them.

"You confided your true origins to him?!" Tom hissed, eyes flashing as his fingers tightened dramatically in her hair. While she could not feel the pain that the fierceness of his hold would cause anyone else, she was viscerally aware that he was clutching her hard enough that escape was impossible. "Why must you insist on exposing your vulnerabilities to those who would find a way to strike at your underbelly?! Bonds are not entirely infallible, and some can be made enfeeble. _You know this_."

He released her with choppy motions, throwing himself away violently as his fists opened and closed spasmodically. This was by far the most wrathful Hermione had ever seen her bond mate and her chest tightened uncomfortably as the urge to soothe him began to beat at her from the devotion entreaty. Before she could make any sort of move to do so, he punched the wall behind him, and she watched, stunned, as his magic rippled along the plaster and caused a multitude of spider web cracks.

"Do you understand the consequences of what you've done?!" he seethed, staring at her with wild and unrestrained fury sparking in his gaze as he pressed his own back against the opposite wall. "If there is a way to weaken the Allegiance and Protection bond (and if you have researched Horcruxes as extensively as you have implied, you know that continued severing of the soul will do so,) then I am compelled by my entreaties _to protect you from him._ The only ways to do so that immediately occur to me are to obliviate or dispose of him. Obliviation can be reversed, so what does that leave me, wife?"

"No, Tom! You can't hurt him," Hermione forced out, wide-eyed and suppressing hysteria as the full force of her decision hit her. Her soul thrashed in her body at the thought of Antonin coming to harm and she could feel the way her magic swelled to the surface to linger with her husband's. "I can't let that happen."

Tom was right. She was aware that the bond could be weakened through the creation of Horcruxes. She also knew that even if Antonin was aware of that as well, very few people would be willing to make a Horcrux. It was vile magic, the darkest of the dark, and unappealing to almost everyone but a very select few. There hadn't been any probable danger to telling him her secrets, but if Tom truly disagreed, the entreaty would claw at him to fix it.

"Do you think I want to kill a loyal and exceptionally talented follower?" Tom raged, pacing back and forth like a caged animal across from her as his magic continued to surge about violently and he clawed at his chest. She could see the entreaties were pushing at him, pulling at his nerves in ways that hurt her soul to watch. "Not only do I not wish to lose that asset, the violent manner of his disposal would cause bond sickness within you, and I am not able to cause you harm!"

Hermione paled as she realized what her need for companionship had done. She had created a conflict in their bonding, one that he either had to reconcile somehow by changing his feelings on the matter, his _true_ feelings on whether Antonin knowing her secrets was dangerous, or...

He stumbled, falling to one knee as his breathing shortened to pained panting. "Your entreaty is tearing at my soul, Gaza," he said haltingly, a bitter laugh bubbling out of him as he curled his chest towards his knees. "I had thought Antonin's contradicting vows may one day shatter him, but no. The decision to give him to you ends up fucking me after all. The irony is-"

He cut off with a growl, pressing his forehead to the floor as Hermione's throat closed up and she began to panic in earnest. What the bloody hell would happen to him if he failed to reconcile the contradicting demands of the entreaty?! This hadn't been in any of the books she read; there were no footnotes on what to do when someone could not fulfill their oath without failing it simultaneously.

She hit her knees beside him, frantically running her hands through his hair and over his back as she tried to think. His magic was coming in increasingly weaker bursts and while she didn't know precisely what that meant, the fact that it was diluting at all was causing dread to overwhelm her.

Tom's breathing slowed and Hermione's heart screamed, her soul howled, and then suddenly her brain kicked on and she-

"An unbreakable vow!" She yelled, shaking her husband to force his attention to her. "If we require him to make an unbreakable vow, I'll be safe and he'll be alive!"

Tom sucked in a deep breath as if whatever had been blocking him from taking full gasps of air was suddenly removed and he fell onto his side. He gulped in oxygen as Hermione rubbed his back, her fingertips shaking on his spine as she stroked up and down in a soothing motion. She took a moment to be thankful that _planning_ to do the vow was enough to stop the entreaty from throttling him before she realized she was sobbing. She ignored it as she listened for his breathing to even out and waited for him to feel well enough to get off the floor.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning over to press her face into his shoulder as he slowly came back to equilibrium. "I didn't think, I didn't THINK! It was illogical, I- I just wanted a friend and I've been so off lately, so emotional. I had no idea this would make you- But I'm so sor-"

Her voice cut off with a gasp when Tom's hand wrapped around her curls once more, pulling her backward viciously with her hair grasped implacably in his fist. He was still panting lightly as he forced her to the ground, rolling over quickly until she was pinned beneath him.

His magic roiled over his skin in scorching waves but she didn't fight him as he forced her chin up so he could stare into her eyes. Her breath caught at the look on his face, a mixture of bewilderment and unease and fury.

"You almost killed me," he said incredulously, almost to himself as he looked at her like a bit of arithmancy he just could not seem to sort out. "You almost _killed_ me. Why don't I hate you? WHY DON'T I HATE YOU?!"

"I don't know," she breathed, biting her lip so hard it almost bled as she forced herself not to struggle. He looked like an animal in a trap, like he was a moment from losing every grip he had on this reality, and she didn't want to tip him over. "I almost killed you, you _should_ hate me. I'm sorry, I'm SO sorry-"

"Stop talking!" Tom snarled, pressing one of his palms into her lips to muffle the sounds of her apologies. His eyes softened ever so slightly as his gaze flitted from the tear streaks on her cheeks and back to her eyes before he slowly removed his hand. "Just... stop talking."

He buried his face in her neck with an almost wounded sound and Hermione felt fresh tears spring to her eyes. He had almost stopped breathing, almost felt his magical core deplete to nothing. Even if he had the Horcruxes, for a man who so despised his own mortality, the distress would be unbearable.

"Why can't I hate you?" he whispered against her skin and then he was kissing her and it was desperate and it was brutal and it tasted like violence and poison and the way she needed him.

It tasted like the darkest midnight blue magic with silver, shimmery stars.

It tasted like Tom Riddle.

 **Hello my very best of readers! There was a lot of love for Antonin after last chapter (which both he and I appreciate) as well some concern about Hermione being OOC? I suppose all I can say is that I disagree, but that I DO agree like she's been exceptionally emotional. It's just that emotional rollercoaster is intentional so we can get to this chapter and the character development herein. So, maybe I don't disagree but only because I knew what I was planning for this chapter? Regardless, I appreciate all your comments, both glowing reviews and constructive criticism and may I just say that you proved yourselves to be exceptionally awesome again. Even those of you who did not like the last chapter were very kind with your feedback and I can't thank you enough for that!**


	22. Fury and Its Appeasement

Tom devoured the woman beneath him with savage hunger.

His body and soul were crackling with unfamiliar sensations and emotions so he focused on the only one that was familiar enough to find any solace in.

He was _pissed_.

Tom drew back and slammed his free hand onto the floor beside his wife's head, noting the way the wood splintered under the weight of his magic with satisfaction. Hermione whimpered beneath him but he didn't pull back, biting at her lips viciously as he strove to absolutely dominate her mouth.

Control is what he needed. If he could bend her and contort her back into the place he had made for her, if he could make her submit to him-

Tom was thrown away from his Gaza as a silent spell surged out through her palms and into his chest, sending him reeling backwards down the hall. His leather shoes whined as he stayed upright through the force of his own power, causing the bottoms of his feet to slide along the floor.

He came to a stop five feet away from her, panting like an animal as his magic boiled out of him in visible sparks that alighted along his skin like jolts of static. His emotions had not manifested like this since he was a child, since before he gained iron control of his will and abilities, and his fury mounted at the return of this weakness.

Narrowing his eyes at Hermione, Tom attempted to take a step towards her and found himself immediately stymied by a translucent barrier. He hadn't noticed her taking her wand out, but between that and the obstacle in his way, something inside of him splintered further.

With a roar, he plunged his fingers into the shielding, noting this particular manifestation was similar to woven fabric. He ripped at it, but every hole he made repaired itself. Tom cursed violently as he realized that both of their magic was threaded through it and that subconsciously, his own core was feeding the impediment in an attempt to adhere to the protection entreaty.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling violently at the strands of ebony as he paced in front of the invisible wall keeping him from his wife.

"Take down the shield, Gaza," he demanded in a tone that brooked no argument, a tone that would have had any of his followers pissing themselves before running as quickly as possible to follow his directive.

"No, Tom," Hermione said, slowly shaking her head as she crossed her arms across her chest, tucking her wand into the crook of her elbow. Her face was still red and blotchy from her sobbing fit and her eyes were wet, but at a minimum, she was no longer wailing. "You need to calm down before you do something you'll regret."

"Such as?" he spat at her, bringing his hands up on either side of his head as he leaned forward and digging them into the barrier once more. "What can I possibly satisfy myself with in retribution that would not violate the entreaties?"

His Deliciae closed her eyes and her face twisted slightly before she pressed her lips into a thin line. "Is that what you want?" she asked softly. "Retribution?"

"Yes," he snarled at her, ripping away fruitlessly at the shield.

He wanted to find a way to hurt her, to make her bleed, to make her SCRE-

 _His stomach heaved violently as a vision of Hermione under his wand, writhing in agony with tears of betrayal falling down her face flashed through his mind. It wasn't even possible, she was immune to_ _crucios_ _, but he felt something akin to a fucking WHIMPER build in his throat and he throttled it._

Tom's hands slashed more violently at the wall. Yes, he _did_ want that. Of course he wanted to make her pay for the way his magic had almost stuttered out. He wanted to rip her open and cut out whatever she had done to break her pain sensors and-

 _He bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood as he pictured her wailing in terror when he pushed the razor-sharp claws of the_ _Golodaniye_ _into her shoulder;_ _the way her pupils would dilate and her eyes would_ _unfocus_ _as horror after horror passed through her brain. Bile rose in his throat, pushing upwards onto his palette as he tried to shake the image._

Hermione's voice cut through the haze in his brain, pushing incessantly against the swirling insanity that was threatening to drag him under as he fought for control of his own mind. He didn't know what she was saying, but it didn't matter, IT DID NOT MATTER because-

"You ruined me!" Tom screamed, pulling his fingers from the shielding so he could pound on it with fists and magic. He landed a savage kick at the base and snarled. "You fucking ruined the Dark Lord!"

He did not want to hurt her.

Anyone, _anyone_ who had ever harmed him personally, inadvertently or not, died slowly. He may have to bide his time, but one day before their natural end, they died in agony. He drew it out and he had made it into an art form, beautiful and brutal in its craft. When finally he allowed the last bit of life to eek from their broken body, he flooded their mind with images of WHY they were dying until they could see nothing else. He made absolutely sure that when they breathed their last, they were denied thoughts of loved ones or musings of the peace that may await them in death. He made them swallow regret that they had dared to cross the Dark Lord and let them choke on it along with those last sputters for air.

But he could not even think about subjecting his little wife to that, let alone desire to do so.

He needed to hate her. He needed to have to be restrained by the entreaties, for the bond to be the only thing keeping him from obliterating her and not even bothering to put her back together. He needed to kiss her again. He needed to pour himself into all the empty spaces within her until every time she moved, pieces of him brushed up against everything that made her up.

Tom stepped back from the barrier, eyes wild and magic still sparking as he paced back and forth across the hallway. He glanced at his Gaza, noting how she looked pale and frightened and guilt-ridden. His stomach swooped and he despised how the sight of her discomfort made him want to fix it, made him want her content and happy.

He mattered. Tom Riddle's discontent was supposed to be the one that mattered, not _hers._

As he stared at Hermione, some of the rage began to ebb away and even if the fact that she was capable of calming him was beyond annoying, he took advantage of the tool all the same. He sought out that iron will, that self-control that he had perfected. His face blanked as he grasped it, pulling it on firmly like a cloak and allowing himself to ice over. The relief was almost instant and he would have sighed into it if he had not had an audience at the moment. His anger always flared hot but he hadn't had an outburst of that uncontrollable magnitude since he was in school.

There was a reason Tom didn't indulge in emotions; his fury-laced magic could burn the whole world down if left unchecked. That was not to be permitted. He wasn't going to consume everything in existence until he was damn good and ready.

His Deliciae's eyes widened as she watched him cool, undoubtedly unnerved by the sudden change in temperament. She should get used to his mercurial nature if she intended to ever provoke him to that level again. Tom could feel the way his magical core stopped automatically feeding the barrier and if the way it stuttered ever so slightly before going back up was any indication, she felt it too.

"Tom?" she whispered, studying him like a specimen in a glass jar that she simply did not quite understand.

"Yes, little wife?" he inquired placidly, running a hand along his limbs as he smoothed his slacks and his button-up of any wrinkles with wandless, voiceless magic.

He watched her swallow and the way her eyes flicked quickly to the barrier. He was almost proud of the way she didn't take it down even though the storm of his fury had passed; he was certainly not above pretending calm in order to encourage others to relax their guard before he eviscerated them.

"What did you mean when you said that I ruined you?" she asked curiously, biting on her bottom lip as she shifted slightly on her feet. He noticed that said lip was red and raw from where he had done the biting earlier and he felt the same violent arousal curl in his belly at the sight.

How long, he wondered, until she calmed enough to let him kiss her again? His Gaza was not like him and the average person was typically not as adept at dismissing obnoxious emotions as he was. It could take her a while.

"I meant nothing," he said coolly, running a hand gently along the barrier still in front of him in a caressing fashion. Even without his core feeding it, it was quite strong and he bit back a smirk at the reminder of his Gaza's magical power. "No one can ruin me."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "But you said-"

Tom cut her off, eyes flashing with unspoken threats as he met her eye pointedly. "I am not ruinable," he told her. "Not by you, and not by anyone else. I do believe I once told you, 'The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die.' I will not die, Deliciae, so I will adapt. If my manner of growth is frightening to your sensibilities, I suggest that you seek out a way to quell that trepidation. You are likely to experience it many times in the years to come."

She shook her head and huffed, looking at him with frustration and confusion reflected in her gaze. "Adapt to what, Tom?" she asked. "I don't- You were so _angry_ and I had made a mistake that almost cost you dearly and you wanted revenge. THAT I understood. Then all of the sudden, you're... _you_ again, normal you, cold and precise. Just, explain this to me _just a little_ , because I am _lost_."

Tom sighed. Why people insisted on not only feeling things but speaking about them was a mystery to him. If one had the bad taste to be emotional in the first place, he would assume one would at a minimum attempt to conceal that fact from others.

"There is nothing to discuss," he advised her, raising an eyebrow when she scowled at him and opened her mouth to interrupt. "Little Gaza, what would you have me say? Do you wish me to admit that I am discomfited to find that even when your error leads me to almost forfeit my life, I do not wish to harm you?"

"Is that what happened?" she asked pointedly, clearly annoyed to feel as if she had to pry this information from him.

He snorted a laugh at her irritation before pausing to study her. As a rule, he did not admit to weaknesses and to be frank, he had very few. His biggest one, however, was standing in front of him and she _did_ have a devotion entreaty chaining her from sharing his words with anyone if he were to give in to her pleas. He'd been ignoring the pulse of his own empathy entreaty for this entire interlude, as it was faint enough to be ignorable, but it likely would not stay that way unless he gave at least a little ground.

"Take down the barrier," Tom told her. "And I'll expound on what I've said _very briefly."_

"You've hardly said anything at all," she murmured under her breath, but though she hesitated, she eventually flicked her wand and the shielding crumbled.

He wanted to immediately close the distance between them, but her wary gaze made him think better of it. Instead, he granted her a grin for her cooperation, leaning casually against the cracked plaster of the wall, before he continued.

"I find myself oddly forgiving of your mistakes," he said with a small grimace that he couldn't quite conceal. "And in an unexpected turn of events, the protection entreaty is not the only thing that keeps me from harming you. On the contrary, your... contentment has grown a strange sort of import to me. It is my desire that you be kept safe, happy, and well cared for. And I always get what I want. Therefore, I will ensure that those things are always within your reach."

Tom watched her throat bob as she swallowed. "Do you mean to say," Hermione stated carefully, "that you've come to care for me?"

He smirked at her before closing the distance between them, prowling towards her as she stubbornly held her ground with a lifted jaw. He slid his palm along her throat until his hand was cupping the back of her neck, allowing his other hand to settle on her hip.

"I mean to say," Tom said coolly, leaning forward until his nose brushed against his Deliciae's as he spoke, "That I care for me and I am not in the habit of denying myself anything. If I wish to see you contented, I will. If I wish to see you safe, I will. And I do wish those things, little wife, so I will see them done."

Hermione smiled slightly and shook her head. "That sounds like you care for me and just refuse to admit it," she pointed out, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"You are welcome, as always, to believe whatever you wish in that beautiful brain of yours, Gaza," he murmured before tasting the red, raw lips he'd been admiring. He bit back a groan at the taste of her as that not quite extinguished fire flared within him again.

Tom's magic and rage were barely contained, still simmering under the surface, and he wanted. He wanted to deepen the kiss, force his tongue into her mouth until she could scarcely breathe around the intrusion. He wanted to rip the robes from her body and suckle on any number of sensitive bits, make her mewl and cry and beg him to finish her. He wanted to revel in her pleas and he wanted to tell her no.

He growled into his little wife's mouth as he tangled his hands in her hair, barely holding himself back as his mind provided fantasy after fantasy. He wanted to back her up against a wall and force her to her knees, fill that pretty little mouth up and _thrust_. He wanted to hear her choke and take and take and _take_ and give nothing back.

Tom pulled away from her, breathing heavily as he rest his forehead against hers. She lifted her lips for another kiss but he dodged her, brushing his mouth against her temple instead and releasing her as he stepped backwards.

The type of sex he craved right now was not the kind that would ever allow him to get back inside her again. She didn't trust him enough for that. And as much as Tom didn't want to give a solitary fuck about that reality, he did.

His jaw clenched as he took another step back and offered his wife a small smirk. "I do believe, Little Gaza, that you said there would be dinner and research."

"What- _Are you serious_?"

Tom tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, allowing the silence to stretch between them to uncomfortable proportions. He had revealed quite enough of his inner workings to her this night, enough to leave him feeling nauseated and exposed. He was not going to give her any additional insights.

Hermione's mouth snapped shut and she flushed, clearing her throat as she smoothed down the dress she was wearing. She nodded jerkily.

"Right, of course," she murmured, running her hands through her curls as she stepped towards the door of his study. "Gilmy?"

The creature popped into existence between them, baring a tray piled high with sandwiches and assorted fruits. "Yous be calling Gilmy, Missy Mione?" she squeaked.

"Yes, I did," Hermione said with a small smile. She looked at him, cheeks no longer blazing as she got herself under control. "Tom, could you please direct her to leave the tray in your study?"

Tom nodded at the elf. "Place the tray on the desk," he told her coldly. "Do not come back in unless called."

"Gilmy be leaving the tray, Master," she confirmed, ears quivering as she quickly popped out of sight.

Hermione crossed her arms and shot him an exasperated look as she moved to stand in front of the door. "You're still making Gilmy call you Master?" she said. "Don't you get enough groveling from your lackeys?"

He shot her a cold smile. "I like for people and things to know their place," he advised her, flicking his wand to pull the wards back so she could enter. "Addresses are important."

Hermione chewed on her lower lip as she crossed the threshold. "Is that why you never say my name?" she asked, settling into the chair in front of his desk. "You always call me 'Gaza' or 'Deliciae' or 'wife,' but never my name. Not since the first few days I knew you."

Tom settled himself behind his desk and leaned back in the chair, studying the woman in front of him intently. "It doesn't suit you," he told her simply.

She startled momentarily before tilting her head. "Pardon?" she asked.

He sighed and leaned forward to carefully pick up a sandwich. He took a precise bite and chewed before answering.

"You were undoubtedly named for either the Shakespearean Hermione or the Hermione of Greek mythology," he answered. "In mythology, Hermione is simply a pawn, betrothed and married and remarried to suit the whims of others. Perhaps the resurrection of Hermione in 'The Winter's Tale' more closely resembles your story, but ultimately, the character is willing to take what blows are dealt her and responds only with placid acceptance of what is done to her."

Hermione's eyes widened as she clutched at her own sandwich.

"You have accepted nothing, done nothing with placidness or grace," he continued with a fond smile. "You tore down time, little fate breaker. You are Kali or Freya or perhaps even Pele, but not Hermione. More importantly, you are _my_ treasure, _my_ delight. You are _mine_."

A laugh bubbled out of his Gaza and she shook her head. "You name me the goddesses of destruction and war," she pointed out. "And yet you address me by names that enumerate all the ways in which I am yours?"

Tom shrugged and took a sip of the provided tea.

"Priorities, Deliciae."

After dinner, the pair of them moved to the dragon skin couch in front of the fireplace to study the manuscript. Tom sat down sideways, positioning his Gaza to settle between his knees with her back to his chest before he unrolled the parchment in front of both of them.

Hermione settled down with her legs crossed beneath her, knees poking out into the triangle of empty space created where his own legs bent up to encase her body. She leaned forward eagerly, grabbing the parchment from his hands as she studied it. With a smirk, he allowed her to steal the manuscript and settled his hands on the top of her bare arms instead. The smooth, soft skin beneath his fingers was distracting and he could feel himself begin to harden in his trousers, but he took a deep breath and willed it away.

Soon, when he could be sure of his restraint, he'd have her again; but not yet. If there was a thing he most despised, it was being out of control and he had done quite enough of that this evening. He did not care to repeat the turmoil of earlier.

"This... is not light magic."

Tom was pulled from his internal musings at the sound of his little wife's tentative voice. He glanced down at her as she shook her head slowly. Hermione bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, flipping back a couple of pages. The parchment shone with a sort of film, the veneer of her translation spell, as she shuffled through the manuscript.

"Look, Tom," she said, pointing at a paragraph at the bottom of one of the pages. "Did you read this? This whole thing is basically a philosophical discussion. The actual instructions on how to make the stone are at the very back and only encompass five pages."

Tom chuckled, charmed by her earnest interest in such an ultimately dark subject matter. "Yes, Deliciae. I've rea-"

"Listen to this," she interrupted, turning halfway in his arms so that she was somewhat facing him. He watched her, somewhere between annoyed and amused when she cut him off in her eagerness.

'The art of creating life, in the most natural sense, is a grisly endeavor. The woman must give blood, flesh, and soul to make another. She allows a parasite to grow within her, one that feeds off the nutrients she consumes to feed herself. If she is magical, she must give part of her power as well, allowing her own core to be siphoned off of to create the child's.

In the end, her own precious flesh and bones are rent to allow the new soul entry into this world. She spills out life blood as the wailing, writhing creature is delivered, and yet, she does it. She gives birth and in many cases, will willingly do so again. For what purpose does she subject herself to this agony? The creation of life.

If this is the process to manifest a life force, if this is what the gods intended must be suffered to selflessly give a soul, what does one imagine will be required to selfishly extend one's own life?

To magic, there is always a cost. To create life or prolong it, that cost is steeper than most.'

Hermione cut off with a shiver, leaning back into his shoulder as she finally looked up at him.

"There is no possible way this manuscript is angelic in nature," she said cautiously.

"Indeed," Tom agreed, taking advantage of her unease to turn her back around and slide his arms around her waist. He moved her curls out of the way and pressed his chin into the curve where her throat sloped into her shoulder. "I suspect Nicholas Flamel never intended to share the particulars of HOW he created his stone with anyone. It's safe to say, however, that the 'Abraham the Jew' story is likely fabricated."

"Unless he was duped somehow," his Gaza mused, snuggling further into his embrace as she flipped towards the back of the bound parchment. "Perhaps Abraham deceived him."

Tom raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Come now, little wife," he murmured into the skin of her neck. "It does not suit you to be slow, not even to soothe your ruffled ethics. Even if he was originally deluded, no one reading through this manifesto could ever mistake this for a work of angelic origins."

He felt her bristle, straightening momentarily before the indignation seemed to deflate out of her in a whoosh of air and she slumped backwards again.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Hermione conceded softly. "Did you read far enough along to see what this reference to 'cost' refers to?"

Tom hummed an affirmative and turned a few pages, before pointing towards a chart. "Here," he breathed into the delicate skin of her ear. "It seems the more that you give, the more that you get, so to speak. The greater the sacrifice one is willing to make, the less often the Elixir of Life will have to be consumed. Use the murder of a beloved pet to fuel the spell, and you secure yourself a Philosopher's Stone of little to moderate strength."

His palm slid up his Gaza's arm until he clasped her hand in his own. He curled his fingers until he could move her wrist and his as if they were one, then he slowly ran their fingers together across the parchment as he pointed to the different formulas and figures. Hermione leaned forward minutely, studying the manuscript intently as he spoke to her.

"A sacrificed loved one will give you more strength," he continued, his cheek pressed against hers as he moved their fingertips to point at the relevant part of the page, "while an animal to which you have no attachment will give you less. And here..."

He trailed off as he slid their hands downwards, pointing at the very bottom of the chart. "The strongest stone you can create, from an immortality perspective, requires the deepest and most painful sacrifice one can make."

His Gaza let out a deep breath before she turned to him with something between trepidation and fierce academic interest flashing in her eyes. "A soul shard?" she breathed, moving her fingers in what he suspected was an unconscious movement to entwine with his.

Tom nodded and gave her a cool smile.

"And you said the Horcruxes were a terrible idea."


	23. Exposition

Hermione scowled at her husband and pinched the skin of his hand lightly between her pointer finger and thumb in rebuke.

"That's because the Horcruxes _are_ a terrible idea," she stated firmly. "I've just managed to excise all the suppuration and infection of your soul wounds through our bonding, and we're not likely to get another opportunity like that. The disgust I feel at your murderous impulses aside, there will be no more Horcrux making for you."

Tom's chuckle drifted across her cheek as he twisted his hand out of her hold, clutching her wrist instead and sliding his other hand up to mirror the position on her opposite arm. He pulled both their limbs inward until they were cradling her stomach. The manuscript, unsupported by either of them, fell to the sofa in front of her shins. He secured her there before pressing a kiss to the spot in front of her ear that he seemed to favor, causing a jolt of pleasure to run through her body at the sensation.

"How I yearn to slice the tongue from your mouth," he murmured, undercutting his own threat by nuzzling into her neck. "I could keep it in a lovely, velvet box until you learn the lesson of tempering your sharpness in our little chats."

Hermione couldn't even find it in herself to stiffen and she wondered internally when his threats had ceased to sound like threats; at some point, they had begun to sound an awful lot like endearments.

"Your questionable manners aside," Tom continued, "I hardly see the necessity in making another Horcrux, little wife. After all, I already have two."

She tilted her head, considering the point, before giving a tentative nod. She hadn't contemplated the possibility of using a soul shard they already had, but it was a much better option than any of the alternatives.

"It could work," she allowed, "if we were able to destroy the Horcrux. I don't suppose you have any basilisk venom stored away for an undoubtedly diabolical project, or an exceptional control of fiendfyre, by chance?"

Tom stretched his legs out and hummed.

"I have access to both, Deliciae," he reminded her smoothly. "Fiendfyre is easy enough to control if you understand your own magic, which I do. And I could, potentially, order Cygnus to access the Chamber of Secrets through a series of written instructions, though his survival of the task would be doubtful. However, neither of those options should be necessary."

Hermione made an inquiring sound and glanced at his face over her shoulder as Tom released her and picked the manuscript back up from where it had fallen to the couch. He ignored her gaze and proceeded to study it until she turned back around to face the parchment as he pointed at something on the page.

"I believe we can follow the instructions... here," he stated, indicating the macabre directions on how one would go about sacrificing a loved one. "I can force my Horcrux into corporealness with a fair amount of ease and slaughter the result, thereby paying the cost required for the creation of the stone."

Hermione's body gave an involuntary shudder at his impassive assessment.

"You truly think you could just... murder a sixteen-year-old version of you?" she said softly. "You have no qualms about that? I just- It is still _you_ after all and you are quite fervent in your desire to never come to anything approaching a death. It seems to me that this should be more disturbing for you."

Tom chuckled as he set the parchment down once more, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist and capturing one of her wrists again as he nipped at her throat.

"Do you know what I despise almost more than anything else in this world, little Gaza?" he inquired, his voice dripping with darkness and liquid sensuality that seemed to drape over every single inch of Hermione's skin. "I cannot abide a lesser version of myself. Teenaged Tom Riddle, your timeline's version of Lord Voldemort; they disgust me. Given half the opportunity, I would dispose of either with less compunction than I would give stepping on a cockroach."

Tom drug his lips up her neck, dipping his tongue out ever so slightly to run along the tendon there, as he made his way up to the lobe of her ear. Hermione's eyes fell to half-mast as she melted back into the unforgiving, lean musculature of his chest. The need entreaty sparked through her, causing her limbs to suddenly feel like jelly and her heart to stutter before picking up speed.

The subject of conversation was ridiculously unsavory. She _should not_ be enjoying his attentions when he spoke like this. Yet, she had made the decision to stop fighting against her rising emotions and just let the tides sweep her under, and she intended to follow through.

She'd also be lying if she did not admit that the vicious streak inside her thoroughly enjoyed the image of the Lord Voldemort of her time being crushed beneath Tom's shiny, perfect shoe.

While her husband still had one of her arms pinned, her other was free and Hermione took full advantage of this fact by bringing that hand behind her to thread her fingers through silky, dark strands. He bit down on her earlobe at the feeling and growled, forcing a shiver from her body as she immediately tightened her hold.

Tom liked pain; she knew that. So it was only natural to wrench the hair between her fingers to the side with a quick precise motion, forcing her husband to moan involuntarily while his whole body shook behind her in one, quick movement.

She could not have stopped the wicked smile that broke across her face had she tried. So rarely was Hermione able to break through the way that Tom rigidly ruled his every reaction; the fact that his emotions currently swirled so close to his skin could make for a very intriguing, if a bit terrifying, night indeed.

"You are playing an exceedingly dangerous game at the moment, Deliciae," he informed her, his voice huskier than usual as he released Hermione's wrist and smoothed his palm between her breasts and upward. It settled around her throat like a necklace in an embrace that was becoming as familiar to her as the feel of his emerald around her neck.

"You're always dangerous, Tom," she reminded him, turning quickly in his arms and leaning slightly back onto the soles of her bare feet. She kneeled between the cradle of his thighs as he resettled his hands, his left falling to spread across the small of her back while his right simply reversed position and smoothed across her throat once more. "How is today any different?"

He raised a brow at her, eyes dark and flashing with a warning she was determined to ignore as she slid her fingers across his ribs through the fabric of his shirt.

"Today, little wife, my magic has splintered walls and crumbled sconces," he reminded her, pulling her closer with the arm around her waist until her nose brushed against his as he spoke. "My hold on my control of it is tenuous at best. However, I have done all of the denying I intend to do this evening, and the decision to continue with your seduction is your own. Proceed at your own prospective peril, Gaza."

Hermione smiled slightly as she leaned forward until the scant space between their mouths was closed, letting her tongue peak out to drag slowly along Tom's bottom lip. His entire body pulled tight like a bowstring and he inhaled sharply at her action.

She was a Gryffindor, after all; peril was kind of her specialty.

She pulled back to watch in curiosity as her husband closed his eyes and breathed deeply as if the sight and taste of her were too much for him to bear at the moment. It was so... out of character for Tom to hold himself back, for him to not simply take what he wanted and damn the consequences.

She knew he despised the loss of his ability to tamp down every emotion and response until only those which he deemed worthwhile were allowed to manifest, but she reveled in this. She bit her lip as she studied his poorly blanked face, pondering for a moment how many human beings had ever been allowed the privilege of seeing Tom Riddle like this.

Very few, she'd wager.

Her fingers converged on the buttons of his shirt as she pressed her lips to Tom's own, placing gentle, soothing touches to his chest as she exposed the pale, entrancing skin stretched out across his abdominal muscles. Hermione pushed at her husband's shoulders so he lay back against the arm of the couch, strangely pliant to her directions if only for this moment in time as the shift in his position caused Tom's shirt to gape open around him.

His eyes flashed open and he stared at her silently, his irises completely black as he watched Hermione's every move with the studied air of predator learning the movements of prey.

Tom's hand slid from her throat to settle into the curls at the base of her neck as she pressed feather-light kisses to his chest, pausing to tease at one flat nipple as she made her way down his body. When she bit at the nub, his fingers tightened severely and he released a breath, bringing his other hand up to join the first in the messy strands of her hair.

"Gaza," he warned, arching his body ever so slightly as she licked between the lines of the muscles on his stomach. Hermione hummed against his skin, pressing her open mouth to the trail of wiry hair leading down into his trousers as she flicked the button there open and pulled the zipper apart slowly, tooth by tooth.

She felt the way his magic crackled across his skin wildly as she nibbled along the line of Tom's pants and began to pull down the fabric which formed an impediment between her and a destination her mouth almost watered to reach.

Tom Riddle under her attentions, at her mercy, sounded like the most delicious of delicacies and she rubbed her thighs together like a teenager at the thought.

"Gaza," Tom repeated sharply, wrenching her head upward until she was forced to meet his gaze instead of continuing on her path. The sigh that had built in her chest at him denying her the ability to get her mouth on him, even as he had had the prerogative to do so to her own person multiple times, died in Hermione's throat rather quickly. Her eyes widened at the thoroughly debauched state of her husband, one she had never had the privilege to see before, and at the combination of violence and lust roiling in his eyes.

"Listen well, little wife," Tom almost snarled, his breath coming in harsh pants as he stared down at her position between his legs, "as weakness is not something I am accustomed to admitting and I will not do so twice. I AM NOT IN CONTROL, not the way in which you are accustomed to me being. Consider this the last caution I will grant you."

Her mouth fell open as she sucked in a harsh breath. The expressions flitting across his face were inflamed and fervent and gritty. She'd never seen Tom Riddle so unvarnished and she wasn't sure she'd ever get another opportunity to do so. It felt... intimate, in a way that any of the sex the pair of them had experienced together previously lacked entirely.

He kept attempting to warn her away, to somehow sway her from the decision to have him at the moment, and she was suddenly struck with the realization that perhaps all of the menacing words and promises of risks and prospective imperilment had very little to do with her. Perhaps, it was Tom who was the one in peril if they continued.

"You are mine, and I will be yours," she reminded him quietly, watching as some of the wildness of his gaze smoothed under the familiar oath. "And Tom Riddle takes care of what is his. You won't hurt me and if anyone can handle your tempests, it is the one who is your own."

His eyelashes fluttered imperceptibly under the force of her words and his eyes calmed then warmed then heated before he wrenched Hermione up by his grip on her hair and kissed her as if he was attempting to steal the very air from her lungs.

She allowed herself to melt into her husband's embrace and kissed him back just as harshly, with just as much fervor, as she swallowed back the words on her tongue that threatened to erupt. In a few sentences, she had gotten as close to confessing she was in love with him as she was willing to get right now. Whatever was forming between them now was fragile and nebulous and she felt instinctively that too much too soon could shatter it forever.

When he released her mouth to allow Hermione to suck in deep, gulping breaths, she took the opportunity to slide back down his body, returning to her position between her husband's thighs. This time, Tom's fingers curled into her hair without restricting her movements as she mumbled a wandless banishing charm and both his trousers and pants disappeared in the space of a second.

Tom inhaled as he was freed from the constriction of the fabric before Hermione quickly leaned down and licked a broad stripe up the underside of his cock.

She watched in fascination as his eyes sparked impossibly blacker and his mouth fell slightly open, his dark gaze boring into her unfalteringly as she took only the head of him onto her tongue and sucked. The way that his hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically as she allowed her tongue to circle around only the very tip of him caused her to smile slightly around his girth before she allowed more of his length to slip between her lips.

Hermione sucked and nibbled and ran her tongue along his cock, reveling in the groans he did not quite cut back in time and the way his hips pushed upward without his permission when she applied pressure to the little dip right behind the head of him. When she felt that she had teased his flesh sufficiently, which was _significantly_ less time than he usually forced her to wait (for which he should be thankful,) she finally swallowed, opening up her throat as she allowed him to slip past the tight, spasming muscle.

Tom let out a growl, surprise sparking across his face as she bobbed her head gently in direct contrast with the fingernails that she dug harshly into the skin of his inner thighs. His head fell backwards as a long groan of pleasure escaped his mouth, his hips stuttering upwards unforgivingly in a move that buried him more firmly in the clench of her throat.

She gagged, unprepared for the continued intrusion before pulling back and allowing the shaft to rest on her tongue. She bobbed her head once, twice, before her eyes widened dramatically as Tom used the hold he had on her hair to thrust himself fully into her throat again on her downstroke. When she pulled her head back, he let her up immediately, allowing his cock to pull from her mouth with an audible pop.

Although she blushed lightly at the sound, she ignored her embarrassment and stared up at the man before her. "I had somewhat of a plan," she scolded, trying to not be distracted by the hardened shaft that bounced awkwardly close to her face.

"I do believe," Tom murmured, eyes fixed intensely on her mouth, "that there is a muggle saying, little wife. Something to the effect of, 'mortals plan and gods laugh'."

He disentangled his fingers from her hair, reaching one hand down to palm his own length and stroke with painstaking, precise slowness. His gaze, intense and full of promise, never strayed from her lips as Hermione's own eyes refused to move from the sight of his head disappearing and reappearing inside the clutch of his fist. She found herself strangely entranced as he caressed his own flesh, attempting and failing to ignore the hot surge of arousal that swept through her body at the sight. A few moments passed in a haze before his actual words caught up with her and she barely managed not to roll her eyes at his continued condescension.

"I suppose," she said with an annoyed huff, "that you are the god in this scenario and I am the mortal, worshipping on my knees."

Tom's eyes sparked with humor as he reached with the thumb of his free hand to caress the plump protrusion of her lower lip. He offered her a lazy shrug as his wrist twisted, caressing the tip of his length as he sped the palm he was pleasuring himself with.

She scowled and opened her mouth to tell him in crude detail just how he would be doing his own worshipping in the near future, as she was certainly not going to be aiding him. Before she could speak, however, he cut her off with a tsk, pushing the digit sliding across her lip inside her open mouth instead and pinning her tongue down as he stroked along the top of it.

"You aren't a goddess yet, Deliciae," Tom told her with a fond grin that said he was well aware of what she had been about to say. "Though, I confess, the clench of your throat around me would almost force me to believe otherwise. I did warn you, little Gaza, that my control was questionable at the moment. I admit to a moment of insensibility, lost as I was in the warm, wet nirvana that is your pretty little mouth."

The last word was said on a groan as he thrust hard into his hand, eyes falling closed in pleasure as his palm sped further. She flushed, flattered and with her knickers quickly becoming wetter at the sounds of his exceedingly dirty words before she made the rather sound (in her opinion) decision that perhaps now was not the time to discuss the many ways in which his superior attitude irritated her.

She had a gorgeous, thoroughly debauched Tom Riddle desperately bucking into his own hand at the mere thought of her lips around his member. He had pulled so many orgasms from her while she pled and whimpered, given and denied her pleasure at his whim, and Hermione found herself quite ready for it to be her turn to do the same.

Her eyes sparked with a glint of mischievousness as she closed her lips around the thumb resting against her tongue and _sucked._

Tom's lashes fluttered open and he moaned, his movements stuttering as his focus shifted to the way her lips wrapped around the surrogate member, the way she suckled so sweetly and hollowed her cheeks to create the perfect amount of suction.

Taking advantage of his loss of rhythm, she released his finger and surged forward quickly, sucking just the head of him into her mouth again. When he moved to loosen the grip he had on himself, she gripped onto his hand and moved it with her own instead, sliding her fingers into the gaps between his knuckles as they stroked across the hardened flesh in tandem.

"Fuck," he muttered, cupping Hermione's cheek as he watched her with intense, feverish eyes, his gaze fixed without wavering on the place where he disappeared between her lips.

Still, she knew how desperately he wanted to thrust, how he yearned to push all the way in and bury himself, and so she waited patiently for the moment when his body would draw tight and his eyes would haze over and his mouth would slacken in anticipation.

When she saw the signs of his impending release, she pulled Tom's hand away and swallowed him down, allowing him to breach her throat once more in one smooth motion before she forced another swallow.

He almost roared, magic surging outward and lighting her skin enticingly on fire in waves as his hand buried in her hair before he began to pulse in her throat. He thrust almost infinitesimally as she swallowed one last time around him, slapping lightly at his thigh as she ran out of air in the aftermath.

With a violent pull, her mouth was free before she was hauled up her husband's body and she found her lips pried apart by his tongue. Tom licked into her mouth and devoured her until she was dizzy, until her own breaths were coming in short desperate pants and she was squirming in the space where she still kneeled between his thighs.

"There is another muggle saying," Tom informed her, wrapping his hands under her thighs as he lifted her from the couch, "that refers to the chains a man wears whilst he remains indebted to another."

He moved towards the door of the study, murmuring the charms under his breath to peel back the wards before carrying her out into the hallway. Hermione ignored the cracked walls and the crumbled sconces in favor of burying her face in her husband's neck and licking along his pulse, reveling in the way his hands clenched along the crease where leg met arse when she bit down roughly.

Striding into their bedchamber unashamedly nude save for his open shirt, Tom tossed her on their enormous four-poster bed before flicking his wrist impatiently. Her clothes vanished as completely just as his had, causing her to shiver as her bare skin met with the cool, December air.

Tom's lips curled into a small grin before he pointed lazily at the fireplace. Flames consumed the wood that was already prepared for such a purpose and while she took a moment to stare longingly at the heat the fire began to give off, her husband seized the opportunity to prowl up the bed and settle with his hand at her throat in what was clearly his favorite position.

The need entreaty spiked as arousal shot through her, causing her back to arch up into the man above her. Tom met her movement with a wicked smirk, allowing his free hand to drift lazily over her breasts and stomach, all the way down until it stalled between her thighs.

"I am not a man who will ever wear chains," he murmured, watching with avid interest as Hermione keened when he pushed two fingers inside of her without warning, "so allow me to pay my debt."

* * *

"Master Riddle? Missy Mione?"

Hermione attempted to roll over from her spot tangled in the silk sheets with a furrowed brow, seeking out the squeaking voice that had woken her. Her attempts were stymied, however, by the bare arms of her husband which caged her in place. She glared blearily down at the limbs before letting out an annoyed huff.

"Missy Mione?"

"Just a moment, Gilmy," she called, pushing at the forearm clutching her to the firm, warm chest behind her in an implacable grip.

"Let go," she scolded, moving to pry each individual finger from the bedsheet.

Tom's arms tightened further in response and he buried his face into her riotous, morning curls. "No," he murmured simply before he swung his leg over her lower body, pinning her further to the bed.

"Gilmy is here-" she started, but he interrupted her.

"Gilmy is a servant," Tom said huskily, his voice sleep-deepened and painfully alluring. "She will leave immediately and come back only when she is called."

The elf appeared suddenly on Hermione's side of the bed, wringing her ears as she looked miserably at her entwined masters. Hermione pushed as hard as she could once more, attempting desperately to free herself, before giving in with a sigh and sending Gilmy a small, forced smile.

"Gilmy be leavings now?" the elf whispered.

Hermione shook her head. "Not quite yet. It's alright, Gilmy," she assured the anxious creature. "What did you need this morning?"

Their house elf had never violated the sanctity of their bedroom before, except on the occasion that she was invited in. Hermione wasn't sure what it meant that the creature was here now, but she doubted very much that it was good news.

"A Lady Avery is being heres to see the Master," Gilmy said, nodding along frantically with her words. "She being very sick, too, and Gilmy tells her that she goes and gets the Master right away."

At that, Tom's head lifted from the cradle of her neck and he stared at the elf with strangely sharp eyes for someone who was only minutes past sleep.

"How was she sick?" he asked curiously.

"Blood, Master," the elf said nervously. "She being very weak and lots and lots of blood."

This time when Hermione frantically moved to sit up in the bed, Tom let her go with a sigh. She gathered the bedsheet around her chest as her mind whirled, rage and nerves fighting for precedence in her scattered thoughts.

"Apparate her to the guest bedroom directly next to my study," he commanded, curling his body upwards in one smooth motion until he stood, still unclothed, next to their bed. Hermione didn't even blush as she did the same, rushing quickly to the walk-in closet and securing a slip to pull over her head and cover her nude body. "Settle Lady Avery in the bed there and inform her the Mistress and myself will be there presently."

Gilmy disappeared with a crack of sound as Hermione rushed from the closet and across the room to the stool in front of her vanity. She hurried to slide her dressing gown across her shoulders before turning back to where Tom was quickly buttoning his trousers.

She paused, taking a large breath as she tied the clasp of the gown with shaking fingers.

"That man is a monster, and a menace to boot," she hissed, glaring at her husband as he raised a solitary eyebrow at her and proceeded to button his shirt with a nonchalance that made her want to spit curses. "If he's hurt her _again_ -"

"Then he will have disobeyed a direct order," Tom cut in, securing the final button and moving with practiced efficiency towards his socks and shoes. "Do not bare your claws at me, Gaza, before the facts are all known. If Corvus Avery has vented his frustrations on his wife, after I specifically forbid it, the consequences will be such that your morality will find itself greatly offended."

Hermione crossed to the door, pausing to look back at her husband with fire reflected in her gaze as he finished tying one shiny, leather shoe.

"If Corvus has laid a single, repulsive finger on Epona's delicate skin in a way that is neither tender nor welcome," she snarled, pushing the door open in front of her as her magic crackled furiously in the air around her, "I will wade into the Avery dungeons myself to find the most agonizing, most excruciating of the many tools in your lead torturer's toolbox. I will force him still by the force of my own magic so that Epona may do with his body and soul what she will and if she wishes to drown him in his own blood or bathe in it herself, I will drag a porcelain bathtub there for her purposes."

Tom's cold stare bore into her as she turned on heel and stomped towards the guest bedroom. He caught her right outside the door, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pressed a brief kiss to her throat.

"And if I am the one doing the torturing, little Gaza?" he inquired softly, breathing his words into the sensitive skin of her neck. "If the Dark Lord is the one to make him bleed and writhe and plead mercy that will never come?"

Turning her head ever so slightly, she stared up into his dark eyes with deep, chocolate orbs of her own. She reached across her body, setting her hand on his cheek before pushing up on her toes and pressing a gentle kiss to Tom's lips.

"I have decided that innocence matters, Erus," she said firmly, and Hermione didn't miss the way his breath caught and his pupils dilated at the endearment. It was the closest she'd likely ever come to accepting him as the Dark Lord, to not shying away from the blackness of his depths, and she wanted to give him that in this small way.

She despised so many of his choices and that was not likely to ever change. But she did love her Tom, Dark Lord or no.

"Do what you must," she breathed, pulling herself from his embrace and walking into the guest room with purpose.

She'd just given Tom Riddle her blessing to torture one of his more heinous lackeys. She waited for the nausea to come, the guilt to fester, but nothing happened as her nostrils filled with the scent of copper and she laid eyes on the broken, bloody body of Epona Avery.

Hermione wondered if that lack of guilt should concern her more.

 **AN:**

 **Quotes referenced in this chapter:**

 **"A man in debt is a man in chains." - James Lendall Basford (1845–1915), c.1882**

 **"Man plans, God Laughs." - Old Yiddish Saying**


	24. The Supplicant

Tom stalled in the hallway as his Deliciae walked purposefully into the room, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips in that delicious dressing gown.

Erus wasn't quite the 'my Lord' he sometimes allowed himself the fantasy of imagining her crying out in pleasure beneath him, but it certainly had a special charm to it all the same. A very rare genuine smile pushed its way onto his countenance before he forcefully pulled his face out of the expression.

Now was not the time.

Shaking his head to clear the more lecherous and strangely content thoughts from his mind, Tom inhaled deeply and moved to follow his wife into the room. It was time to focus on the matter at hand; the curious and irritating situation where Corvus Avery may have willfully signed his own death warrant with an inadvisable amount of flair.

The familiar scent of blood hung heavy in the room as he watched Hermione rush to the other woman's side, flicking her wand frantically as she cast diagnostics and murmured to herself. Epona appeared to have fallen unconscious in the brief time since Gilmy moved her to the guest bedroom, which suited Tom's purposes just fine. He desired an unbiased assessment before he was forced to listen to the woman's grating, albeit inevitable, wailing.

The soft sound of his wife's muttering reached his ears once more and his eyes flashed back to focus on her.

"Aloud, little Gaza," Tom interrupted smoothly, settling his back against the dresser where he lounged comfortably. He crossed his legs in front of him and allowed his hands to settle in his pockets as she froze momentarily with her wand still poised over Epona to glance back at him quizzically. "I'd like to be kept apprised of your findings as they are made."

With a minute nod, his Deliciae turned fully back to the bed with her curls whipping around wildly behind her in tune with her frantic movements before she resumed her work.

"Mild concussion, hours old," she said, smoothing her hand over Epona's forehead with a wince before continuing down the woman's body. "Few actively bleeding wounds at this time. Blood loss moderate, primarily from the application of some sort of cursed knife. Evidence of multiple curse and jinx use..."

Hermione trailed off as she flicked her wand again, causing a number of lights and symbols to float off of the woman's chest like smoke. Her eyes narrowed and her magic began to pulse in the air dangerously as she read the results aloud.

"Cruciatus and Imperius, as well as a Silencio, to muffle any screaming," she stated through gritted teeth, glancing down at the woman sprawled on the bed with tears beginning to form in her eyes. Tom's chest pulsed uncomfortably and he grimaced in annoyance as he reached a hand up to smooth over the ache. "Alarte Ascendare and Everte Statum as opposed to more muggle means of physical violence and abuse, though that was used as well."

He watched as his Gaza swallowed before closing her eyes and inhaling deeply a few times in an attempt to calm herself. The pain in his chest ebbed and he smiled slightly at her success.

The fact that his wife was becoming more adept at controlling her emotions was quite a boon to him, especially when one considered that her poor moods caused his solar plexus to quite literally ache.

"Ultimately, the wounds will need to be mended and dittany needs to be applied to keep scarring to a minimum," Hermione said finally, allowing her eyes to open as she glanced at him with a pained expression on her face. "I also need to heal her wrist, which has a number of hairline fractures and deal with the sprain to her left knee. Then we can wake her up."

Tom nodded before flicking his wand into his hand from his forearm holster.

"Anima Revelare," he murmured, watching with very little surprise as a ghost of the countenance of Corvus Avery shimmered in the air above Epona's body. Hermione's gasp of surprise brought his eyes back to her and he smiled coldly.

"A spell to reveal the soul that cast a spell, or spells, in this case," he explained. "Fairly dark in nature and largely unknown."

"Gilmy," Tom called, waiting until the little creature popped into the room with bowed head and nervous fingers picking at her pillow case. "You have my permission to access the cabinet in the potion's lab and retrieve the following: Essence of Dittany, Murtlap Essence, and Star Grass Salve, as well as Blood-Replenishing Potion and a Calming Draught."

The elf apparated out of the room quickly and he glanced over to where his wife was now seated on the bed, running gentle fingers through the blood matted hair of Epona Avery.

"I'll leave you to heal her, Gaza," he began, smirking when her head whipped around to glare at him. He watched her open her mouth to scold him for his refusal to aide her in her occupation but cut her off before she could speak.

"That is still technically the Lady Avery, a member of pureblood society with all of the privileges and protections that entails," Tom stated, moving to stand and take a few steps towards the hallway. "It would be highly inappropriate for me to see her in any state of undress, and as she will need to be cleaned and offered unsoiled clothing, undress is rather an inevitability. Furthermore, I should think you in all of your compassion and mercy would consider that a male presence without warning might do her more psychological harm than good."

He paused at the hallway, glancing over his shoulder at his wife. Hermione's lips were pursed in annoyance but she sighed in resignation at the logic of his argument and waved a dismissive hand at him that had Tom's lips quirking up at one side even as irritation flashed up his spine.

"I suppose Gilmy is more than sufficient to aide me," she stated quietly, moving to stand and tie her dressing gown more securely.

"Indeed," he agreed, "And do be sure to send the elf to alert me as soon as Epona is conscious and capable of conversation. I would not normally be called upon to attend a person's bedside, but considering her injuries and the time constraints that are currently in place, it seems I will be forced to make an exception."

His Gaza bit her lip and glanced back at the woman lying bloodied on the bed. "Can't your interrogations wait, Tom?" she asked. "She's been through an awful lot in the past few hours."

"No, they cannot," Tom stated dismissively, moving to leave the room entirely. At the sound of outrage behind him, he sighed, closing his eyes in annoyance before turning around once more.

"I implore you to use that beautiful brain of yours, Deliciae," he said with an air of exasperation. "If Corvus is responsible for the Lady Avery's state, and the spell I utilized has determined this to be the case, the man must be dealt with swiftly and with purpose. He has the means and mind to attempt to flee, fight, or employ any number of other tactics. While they would ultimately be fruitless, as he is marked, the task of countering his efforts could prove tedious and time-consuming. Meanwhile, we are unaware of the details of his bonding with Epona and how his absence or actions may affect her. It is necessary that I have the facts as soon as possible that I may deal with him efficiently and without the wasting of additional resources, not only for my own gratification but for your little project's sake as well."

His little wife's jaw clenched and she huffed but she offered him a stiff nod and turned back to her patient.

Tom grinned as he left the room and walked with purpose towards his study. It was always so delicious to watch her sort out whether to address the veiled insult in his words or concede to the logic. It's not as if he actually believed his Deliciae to be anything but stunningly brilliant; on the contrary, the depths of her intellect were a rival even to his and that was an impressive fact indeed. Too often, however, she still allowed her emotions to over-rule her pragmaticism and he hoped to one day reverse that.

If he couldn't stamp out her sentimentality entirely in favor of logical thought, he could at least teach her the proper order in which to acknowledge those dual impulses.

His wife, however, was not his main concern at the moment.

Despite the hour, Tom crossed the wards barring his study to anyone but him and moved to the wet bar that held his fire whiskey. He poured himself a glass as he pondered what, precisely, he was going to do with the unruly, disobedient Avery Heir.

Settling in his favorite dragon skin armchair in front of the fire, he allowed the liquid to burn its way into his chest as he stared into the flames.

This was precisely why he never limited the hobbies or extra-curricular impulses of his inner circle. Admittedly, Avery was not a part of the original Knights but he had worked his way up through his willingness to wade through the blood and bile of any Tom ordered him to. He was useful and predictable if not altogether innovative or self-starting.

The Dark Lord had seen his niched value and had intended to keep him.

Limiting the man's freedoms had now resulted in a quandary Tom really should have foreseen. Avery was impulsive and lacked forethought, so it was truly just a matter of time before Epona did something that threatened what he saw as his dominance in his own home and Corvus responded in a manner he deemed necessary. He was like a toddler who had been denied a favorite toy but forced to see it on an unreachable shelf every single moment of his days; a tantrum of epic magnitude was a foregone conclusion.

Tom grimaced as he took another sip of the alcohol; yet, regardless of Avery's more obvious deficiencies, a part of him had truly believed the man was at a minimum intelligent enough not to defy a direct order from his Lord. Impulse control issues aside, Corvus had not appeared to be particularly suicidal.

Obviously, Tom had overestimated him.

However, despite whatever difficulties came from being denied the freedom to beat one's wife into submission, it was not Epona's deference to her husband that was any of Tom's concern or interest; his purview was in Corvus's submission to him and the Death Eater had failed him.

Failure was unacceptable.

The question was, exactly how useful did he find the Avery Heir? Could he afford to lose Corvus as a resource?

Corvus's father was still alive and likely would be for many more years. The man, however, had retired to France and expressed little to no interest in politics. If pressed, Tom was sure he could count on his support, but the elder was ultimately irrelevant.

The younger son, Amon Avery, who was the next in line to be heir should something... _unfortunate_ befall Corvus was, put quite simply, a moron. The man lacked any intelligence at all and spent most of his time drinking and fucking his way through Britain.

Amon was more useless to Tom than his father was. Moreover, the Avery family themselves did not bring anything to the table that could not be found in much greater quantity within the Malfoys, the Notts, or the Blacks. Although Sacred 28, Avery influence and wealth paled in comparison to the other families he owned. It was also worth noting that while Corvus remained only an heir, Abraxas and Livius were the heads of their family and Orion was the patriarch in practice, if not in title.

There was also the matter of Corvus Avery Jr's betrothal to one of the many Black sisters to consider. One did not break a cradle betrothal without paying a price, and every agreement that had been done so far had been made with an eye towards keeping the power that the Death Eater's were building within their own sphere. Who would the younger Avery grow to be without his father keeping him within Death Eater influence? What of the Black girl if she married outside their circle instead?

Tom tilted his head as he swirled the liquid inside his glass in thought. Perhaps he should ask his little wife who these children grew to be before deciding if their loss was a factor at all. If they were magically weak, they were unimportant considerations from the start.

Resolving that more information was required, Tom swallowed the last of his drink and rose. A quickly cast 'dies' determined that he had left Hermione and Gilmy to their task only an hour ago and he likely had a bit more time before they would seek him out. There was business to attend to this day that did not involve the unexpected, pitiable arrival of a society lady draped in gore.

Crossing to his desk, Tom wrote out a quick missive to the Mouseling, demanding his presence that evening at Nidum Serpentis. Tom wasn't entirely sure if he, himself, was going to be available but he found that he was not bothered by the thought of Dolohov waiting fruitlessly for his arrival.

He did intend, of course, to be here to greet the other man. There was the small matter of shredding Antonin's mind in search of any buried attraction to his Deliciae that needed to be attended to, not to mention the necessity of forcing the Mouseling into a vow to never reveal his Gaza's true origins.

The quill broke into pieces beneath his tightened grip and Tom dropped his head to his chest as he released a heavy breath through his nose. Merlin, how he despised sharing. His little wife should be his alone; his to engage in discourse, his to debate with, his to fuck into mindless submission when she would not cease disagreeing with him. She was his to know, his to hold; his to own and his to treasure.

He tightened his jaw as he swallowed back the curse the welled inside his chest at the thought of her growing relationship with Antonin. It's not as if the man was here to receive the curse anyway, and regardless, he'd never hear the end of it from his Gaza were he to act of the impulse.

Summoning a fresh quill, he finished the note with barely restrained vitriol and set it aside to give to Gilmy to owl. While he maintained three such creatures for the purpose, he had no interest in their care and left them to their own company in an owlery at the back of the property.

His next correspondence was to the owner of Borgins and Burkes, pushing the much-anticipated meeting with Madam Smith to the beginning of January. When he had been informed that he was finally to meet with the woman, he had almost dropped his latest acquisition in a very unlordly moment of visceral excitement. He was, after all, only maintaining his work long enough to get the founder's items before turning his full focus to the management of his Death Eaters and the attainment of his goals.

However, with the news of Corvus's idiotic dissention, the necessity to sort out Dolohov, and Tom's unyielding craving to begin work on the stone, Hepzibah's treasures were going to have to wait.

He was sealing the final missive when Gilmy popped into this study with her eyes averted to her bare feet.

"Missy Mione be sendings Gilmy," she squeaked tentatively. "The Lady Averys is being awakes."

"Noted," he said distractedly, gathering the other letter and thrusting them both into her waiting arms impatiently. "See to it that those are mailed out immediately and then feel free to resume your day."

"Thank yous, Master," the creature said with a bow, disappearing into the air as Tom strode through the door of his study and out into the hallway. His feet carried him quickly to the spare bedroom where he had left the women and though he did not wait for permission, he did knock lightly before entering.

As he crossed the threshold, he was greeted with his wife's back as she silently gathered potions bottles and spare bandages into a tidy bundle with a few small flicks of her wand. Epona was seated upright against the headboard of the bed, looking pale but freshly healed and washed. She was wearing a set of loose-fitting, pale blue silk robes he recognized as belonging to his Gaza.

"Little wife," Tom greeted as he moved to the foot of the bed, "and the Lady Avery. I trust you are-"

He ceased talking abruptly as Epona pitched herself from the bed and landed on the opposite side floor of where Hermione was working. At the thud of her body hitting wood, his wife gasped and dropped the entirety of the gathered rubbish with a shattering of glass, moving swiftly to round the bed and help her back up. Tom got there first however, sidestepping around the end until his eyes fell on the other woman's form.

He stalled there in front of Epona, catching his wife around the waist and pulling her backwards into his chest when she tried to run around him and towards the prone figure.

"Tom, what are you-" she began incredulously, but he calmly placed a palm over her mouth as he watched the woman move stiffly until she lay prostrate before him.

Hermione struggled momentarily but stilled as Epona did, eyes widening in confusion as the woman before them lay quietly.

"Speak, Lady Avery," Tom said softly, tilting his head in inquiry as he eyed the figure at his feet.

"Remember, my most gracious Lord, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession was left unaided," Epona began weakly.

Tom's eyebrow rose and the corner of his mouth began to curl. While the words were not strictly true, the woman in front of him was certainly clever. Yes, he supposed it could be said that he had offered her protection and the shelter of his magic when he ordered her safety from the hands of her husband. While the supplication she had chosen to invoke was one usually used to implore the aid of the gods, not men, that simply added to the allure of the petition.

Old Magic she called on, true, but he had made no commitments to her as of yet. Perhaps a tentative offer could be considered to have been made, but he held the power to reject her now with no ill consequences to himself. Were he to accept, however, Tom would be compelled to aide her in exchange for her devotion and fealty.

He was self-aware enough to acknowledge the choice to address him as divine stroked his ego even whilst he enjoyed the stroking. His Gaza brought her fingers to the hand that still covered her lips and after a glance at her to be sure of her silence, he allowed her to pull his palm down to rest on her chest instead.

"Inspired with this confidence, I turn to you, my Lord," Epona continued, her words soft and wheezing, but filled with certainty none the less. "To you I come, before you I kneel, with nothing else to offer but all of me. I beg you, do not despise my petition, but in your mercy hear and answer me."

Silence filled the room as Tom regarded the prone form in front of him, considering the options available to him. He gently pushed his wife to the side, stepping forward to kneel inches from the crown of Epona's head whilst he studied her curiously.

"Are you not afraid, Lady Avery," he asked coldly, "to put yourself under the thumb of not one, but two masters?"

She flinched from his words, but when she answered, her voice was strong and sure.

"It is my hope, my Lord, that one such master will not live out the day," she said, spitting the word 'master' with almost physical venom. "I have lived under the thumb, as you put it, of a man who enjoys nothing so much as to consume my raw anguish. I am prepared to trade one devil for another if the other gives me at least a chance of pleasing him."

She glanced up at him then, terror and determination and yearning almost a literal presence on her skin. "Save me and I will be your ever-devoted servant, from this day to my last."

"Do you believe you have more to offer me than your husband?" Tom asked curiously.

Hermione made a noise of discontent from behind him but thankfully kept her own council as Epona dropped her head once more.

"Corvus is but a mad crup who is barely chained," she said quietly. "He is easily replaced, for how difficult is it to find a man who revels in decay and blood and whose loyalty can be bought? That is all you have in Corvus. I may not be as strong nor as vicious, but I will never be swayed or bought. I will never question an order. I will live and die by your will and your command, my Lord. This I so swear."

Tom glanced back at his wife, watching as she yanked on the hem of her dressing gown nervously and bit her lip until it looked moments away from bleeding. She seemed torn on whether she wished for him to accept this offer and it was no small wonder why. This was not to be an equitable trade.

Epona offered herself as slave to him and in return, he would be responsible for her up to the extent he chose. If he accepted her supplication, she would be safe from her husband, but she would always live under his heel and his whims, more so than any of his followers. Her livelihood would be tied to his pleasure with her performance and a harsh word from him could cut her down in an instant.

It would be a horrible life, a half-life, and the thought of it was, frankly, distasteful; even to him. That being said, were it not for the distress pulsing in his chest, he would likely accept the offer. What concern of it was his if the woman was moronic or desperate enough to make such poor agreements? His Gaza, however, clearly viewed this woman as some sort of pet and Epona's defeat would clearly hurt her.

That was not an acceptable outcome.

His focus strayed back to the woman in front of his shoes as he rose back to his full height and took a small step backwards. Epona made a desperate, wounded sound at his retreat, but he ignored it.

"Rise, Lady Avery," Tom demanded, not stopping Hermione when she rushed around him to help her do so. Epona slumped against his wife, desolation evident in every nerve of her body as she settled woozily on her feet. His Gaza settled her arm around Epona's waist and moved to help her into the bed, placing her once more with her back against the headboard.

"What is the nature of your bonding with Corvus?" Tom asked coldly, watching as hope flashed tentatively across the woman's face once more.

"Aevitus Adstringo," Epona breathed, reaching a hand up to clutch at her ribs that were no doubt aching after her escapade. "I am bound tightly, but I _will_ be free when I die."

"Or when he does," his Deliciae murmured viciously, arranging the pillows behind the other woman with fury filled precision that made a grin Tom was unable to suppress spread across his face.

"I offer you this, Lady Selwyn," he said, and it was lost on no one in the room when he called her by her maiden name. "You may take your husband's place in the Death Eaters as recompense for his loss and have all of the protections and privileges that grants you; no more and no less. You will remarry a person of my choosing and the betrothal contract between your son and the Black Family will remain in place."

He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temple briefly as he considered what, precisely, he was going to do with this magically weak woman. Perhaps her determination to please him would outweigh her deficit in that arena.

"I will find some use for you, I am sure," he finished with barely concealed annoyance.

Tom's lashes fluttered open when he felt his Deliciae press her delicious body to his own, wrapping her arms around his waist and clinging to him as she slowly released a breath into the fabric of his shirt. He buried his fingers in her hair and pulled her face into his neck as he kept his eyes on the woman sitting frozen in the bed in front of him.

Finally, Epona seemed to pull herself from her shock long enough to bow her head, tears streaming down her face as her chest rose and fell with hiccupping sobs. Tom bit back his distaste at the sight, choosing to focus on the witch in his arms instead.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said quietly.

He did not acknowledge her, instead burying his nose in the curls of his Hermione's hair and allowing himself a moment to bathe himself in the waves of her appreciation rolling through their bond via the empathy entreaty.

Epona and her gratitude mattered very, very little; his little wife's, however...

Tom forced his face to stay impassive even as his Deliciae pressed small, thankful kisses to his throat. Eventually, however, the necessity for work to be done forced him to tighten his fingers in the strands of her hair and pull her delicious lips away from his neck.

"Avery Villa is no longer your home," he said a bit hoarsely, still holding his wife in his arms while he watched over her shoulder as Epona nodded slowly. "I will not mark you until you are at full health, as it is a taxing process, but consider from this day forward that you are a member of the Death Eaters in an official capacity. Who in the organization do you wish to stay with until your husband is dealt with and a new marriage can be arranged?"

Epona bit her lip and glanced at the blanket in front of her before finally speaking.

"I wish to stay with Jocelend, my Lord," she said quietly. "She has always been kind to me and I think would be willing to allow myself and my son shelter for a time."

Hermione's head lifted quickly in a panic and she glanced behind her to stare at Epona.

"Where is Corvus Jr?!" she asked a bit frantically. "Is he in danger?"

"Oh no, I..." Epona trailed off before clearing her throat. "My house elf, Bodry- We have a system, he and I. Whenever Corvus would begin a rampage, Bodry would apparate with Corvus Jr to a pavilion in the woods on the east side of Avery lands and wait for me to call for him. The elf is bound to me, personally, since childhood and is loyal."

"Call for him when you reach Rosier Villa," Tom ordered, clasping his Gaza's wrist in his palm as he began to move towards the doorway. "Gilmy will see to any needs you may have before you exit the property, but leave quickly. I will not tolerate others in my home when neither my wife nor I am present."

With that, the pair of them left the woman in the guest room as Tom pulled his Deliciae down the hall and towards their bedchamber.

"You did that for me," Hermione said quietly as he pushed open the door and strode inside. He turned to her with a raised brow, releasing her wrist when she indicated her desire for him to do so.

His eyes followed her as she moved to stand in front of him, sliding her hands up his chest and along his shoulders where she allowed them to settle. Her mouth pressed against Tom's gently in a barely-there kiss that had him licking his lips to savor the taste of her when she moved her head away again.

"You did that for me," she repeated, and he sighed before giving her a curt nod.

"I did," he admitted wryly, aggravation and something unnamable, something unfamiliar roaring up his spine. It was softer than possession, deeper than protectiveness, and utterly unknown to his person. "Allowing Epona into my outer ranks is painful, Gaza. She is not particularly much of anything; not especially clever nor powerful nor having any niched, sadistic value."

"But you did it anyway, Erus," Hermione said softly, fingers tangling in the strands of his hair as she buried her face in his neck once more. "Because I wanted her safe; because it made me happy. Thank you."

He closed his eyes on a swallow, his throat moving under the gentle press of her mouth before he answered.

"It is my desire to possess every part of you," Tom breathed, biting back a groan when her teeth scraped against his flesh. "And as you are aware, I always get what I desire. It is to my pleasure to own your happiness as well."

Whatever was between them had changed, but as he had said before, Tom Riddle was not in the habit of denying himself what he wanted. If he wanted her joy, he'd have it and he intended to consume it with all the relish it so richly deserved.

"Come, Deliciae," he said, allowing his lips to pull into a smoldering and dangerous smirk as he moved back away from her. He reveled in the way his little wife's breath caught at the expression on his face before he gently pushed her towards their closet in a bid for her to dress.

"There is a situation that requires my immediate attention," Tom murmured as she moved to follow the implied directive. His face blanked and cooled as whatever defenses he dropped in his Gaza's presence shifted back into place.

A cold smile graced his lips as he turned away from her.

"Avery Villa and its Master await."

 **AN: I know some of you were hoping for torture and Corvus's punishment, but not to worry! It is upcoming. Also, Epona's petition is adapted from the Memorare, which is a Catholic Prayer to the Virgin Mary to implore her aid.**


	25. To Suffer

**AN: Please be warned that, as discussed, this chapter has torture in it. This includes what I would call sexual torture, though it is implicit and in no way graphic. Heed this warning if you are squeamish or triggered by such and shoot me a review asking for a non-graphic summary of the contents. Thanks my very best of readers!**

Tom crumpled the wards around Avery Villa as his wife smoothed back her hair and straightened her skirt after landing somewhat clumsily on the cobblestone in front of the ancestral home.

It wasn't strictly necessary of course; the wards did not bar him, but he wanted Avery to know he was coming. He wanted the man to sweat and worry and wring his hands back and forth, if that was something Corvus was even capable of. He wanted his lead interrogator to have time to truly _dread_ his arrival.

He took a moment to re-secure his wand in its holster, eying his little wife with a small frown.

While Hermione always dressed appropriately when they would be in contact with his followers, today was different. His eyes followed her perfectly manicured blood-red fingernails as she fiddled with the bodice of her robes. The material was not her usual fare, but a shimmery black sleeveless number with a stiff high collar and a slit up to her mid-thigh. Her typically unadorned face was decorated with harsh streaks of black around her eyes and a red slash for her mouth. When combined with her fair skin and the way her hair was pinned away from her face, it gave her the appearance of being carved from marble, from ice.

On this day, his Gaza was knife-sharp edges and to rub up against her was to walk away bleeding. In a strange turn of events, he found himself displeased to see her so hardened. He had spent so much time fantasizing about how he might change her when first they met, mold her into something similar to the creature in front of him, yet he now found the image lacking something integral. It was wildly inaccurate, a portrayal of a different woman; his wife was flame and intellect and passion, not frigid danger.

Then her eyes met his, uncertain and nervous and determined, and the mask of plumage and paint disintegrated. Like a warrior to battle, she had donned her armor, but it wasn't a part of her. He pulled his Deliciae into his chest and planted a kiss on her forehead, smirking into her hair when she melted into him in a bid for comfort.

He may dislike the aesthetic, but he would not try to take her war paint from her. While he did not personally understand the need for such things (finding torture to be no more taxing than research or a business meeting himself,) if it allowed him the privilege of watching his little wife wreak havoc and vengeance across a man who had betrayed him, he'd gift her the security of it all the same.

Pain may not be his kink, but submission certainly was. The idea of seeing his bond mate force another to crumple his will beneath her dainty heel did things to the Dark Lord that he had not entirely anticipated.

Carefully keeping his thoughts concealed from his expression, Tom pulled back and placed a hand beneath his Deliciae's chin, pulling until her face tilted up to greet him. Her eyes snapped to his and he raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Corvus Avery's home before shooting her an inquisitive glance.

He watched with interest as she stiffened in his grasp before every muscle of her body relaxed in a controlled symphony, one after the other. Her face became smooth and unaffected, aristocratic in its distance, and Tom could not help but to grin at her attempt.

He kissed her just to ruin it, chuckling when her face scrunched up and she batted at him with a scowl, before offering his arm to escort her to the door. The wards had fallen a while ago and Corvus had been granted sufficient time to ruminate. Hermione placed her hand in in the crook of his elbow and allowed Tom to lead her up the stairs and to a set of peeling, gray double doors.

Avery Villa was ill cared for and ominous in aura, much like the quintessential muggle haunted house. Corvus had never cared much for such things, always somewhat slovenly behind closed doors, and Epona had been exceedingly unlikely to change anything what-so-ever without explicit permission. As he had learned this morning, Epona did apparently boast ownership of a house elf; it was evident, however, upon seeing the untrimmed shrubs and peeling paint on the shutters that he was likely one of few or perhaps the only elf in residence. While Nidum Serpentis was small enough to be managed by one elf, most pureblood ancestral houses had upwards of 80 rooms. Even with magic, it was too much for less than a fleet of elves to maintain.

Hermione's face screwed up in a grimace as she eyed the gargoyle that served as a door knocker, reaching a hand out to lift it before Tom caught her wrist.

"Careful, Gaza," he said softly, reaching his free hand up to do it himself. When his fingers lingered in front of it, the stone face moved swiftly, extending its jaw to reveal razor-like teeth as it leaned out from the doorway. The creature bit at his thumb before shuddering back into the wood as his blood registered as approved.

His Deliciae swallowed and offered him a small smile of thanks as the doors swung open. "What would have happened if I had knocked?" she asked.

Tom moved his hand to the small of her back and ushered her inside. "The knocker would have failed to recognize you and would have requested payment for your entrance," he explained, flicking his wrist carelessly so that the doors slammed behind him. "Since you were inside the wards and the gargoyle had not been deactivated by its master-"

"It would have demanded payment in flesh," Corvus Avery's voice interrupted, echoing through the large room. Tom's eyebrow went up at the gall and he glanced to the front of the entrance hall where Corvus was slowly sauntering in. "A hand, my dear Lady, maybe even your forearm as well, to weaken you before you would be allowed entrance to the great house of Avery."

Corvus spread his arms gesturing to the area around him and exposing his chest as his robe fell open. Judging by the towel wrapped around the man's waist, Tom was fairly certain they had interrupted his minion's steam. Rage suffused his being as he took in the disrespect of his follower, the interruption as well as the exposure of his body to Tom's wife.

Well. It was not as if mercy had been on the table to start with, but now...

Corvus dipped into a slight bow, the merest flirt at a whisper of courtesy, before straightening again and leaning casually sideways against the wall. "My Lord and Lady," he said, crossing his arms across his chest as he reclined languidly. "To what do I owe this pleasure? I am, as you can see, unprepared for visitors but my Lord and Lady Riddle?"

He laughed, an easy and charming sound before he continued. "My home, my soul, my everything, is as always... yours."

Tom stepped away from his wife, calmly placing his hands in his pockets as he walked deliberately towards the Death Eater. Corvus began to straighten, muscles losing their looseness as the man watched his slow and precise steps until he stalled in the middle of the entrance hall. Silence reigned as Tom casually glanced around the room, rolling his shoulder and neck before closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep, soothing breath.

His fury beat beneath the surface, but it was easy to keep it banked. His follower had either decided to go to his death with an inordinate amount of defiance or failed to understand the danger he was in entirely. Tom suspected the latter. The time to unleash his rage would come; for now, there was a rodent to toy with.

"Do come here, Corvus," he purred, watching as Avery's eyes widened and his pupils dilated drastically. The man twitched before forcing himself to follow the directive, stopping a few feet in front of Tom.

Corvus licked his lips nervously, the look on his face no longer the cheeky, defiant expression he had greeted them with. Now, his features showed confusion and apprehension.

Tom's arm shot out, tangling his fingers in the other man's hair before yanking him closer, pulling Corvus into his personal space. Avery's hand twitched as if the instinct to reach for his wand was almost too much, but his fist clenched helplessly when a feminine, whispered 'expelliarmus' saw it sailing away from him and into Hermione's waiting palm.

Tom glanced back at his little wife, shooting her a fond smile, before turning his attention back to the man in his grip. Corvus's chest was inches from his own, the strands of his hair curled around Tom's fingers like a lover's, as the Dark Lord smiled coldly at the dead man. He had only a few inches on Corvus, but the other man's knees had clearly gone weak as Tom took most of his weight with his other hand on Avery's upper bicep.

"You've been very naughty, Corvus," he scolded softly, using his grip to tilt Avery's eyes up to meet his own. "Very naughty, indeed. Legilimens."

Without giving his lackey time to lower his defenses, Tom shredded his occlumency walls, ignoring the whimper of pain from the body in front of him as well as the scream that echoed in the mind. He forced his way forward until he found the memory of Corvus's night and morning, brutally pushing through the hours as he ripped and tore details away. When he was done, he carelessly wrenched his mind backwards, releasing his physical hold on Avery at the same time and turning back to his wife as the man crumpled to the floor with a pain-filled sigh.

Glancing back briefly at the figure, Tom reached down and threaded his hand through Corvus's hair once more, forcing the man to meet his eyes. "Sit here like a good boy for the moment and perhaps try to catch your breath," he ordered, smiling as Corvus grimaced in pain and attempted to force his hazy eyes to focus. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord," Avery grit out hoarsely, collapsing back with his face to the floor when Tom released him.

He strode back to his Deliciae who was eyeing the subjugated form of his lackey with brutal satisfaction dancing in her eyes. The look made his steps stutter and his pants tighten painfully as he inhaled, gaze fixed to the subtle upturn of her lips and the shaking of her hands.

"Gaza?" he inquired softly when he reached her side, forcing his own hands to his sides lest he bend her over right here in the entrance hall and fuck her into Avery's floor.

"How many times do you imagine Epona found herself whimpering on the ground in pain in this gods-forsaken house?" she whispered, eyes tracing over Corvus as the man's body shook against the wood.

"He looks good down there," Hermione continued brutally, loud enough that Avery could hear her as he attempted to lift his face to look at her before giving up and collapsing back down. "He looks like he _belongs_ down there, on the floor, with all the other beasts."

Tom stared at the curve of her neck, the flush of her cheeks, and felt potent arousal pool even further in his gut. He had not enjoyed what he saw of her outside, but this was something else entirely.

"Would you like me to tell you what he did?" he asked, voice deeper and huskier than he had intended.

His Deliciae's eyes flitted to his for a moment, and in them he saw feralness he had never had the privilege to witness before. He saw heat, blazes and flames licking across her iris; there was nothing but fire.

"No," she said firmly, stepping towards Corvus's collapsed form. "I want you to tell me, Lord Avery. Right after you show me these dungeons I've heard so much about."

* * *

While Tom hadn't truly considered it at the time, allowing Hermione to see the dungeons was perhaps the worst thing that could have happened at this point to affect Avery's future.

She had forced Corvus to walk, painfully and slowly, across the manor, down the stone stairs, and into the hallway that housed the cells. No one was down here now, there often wasn't, but Avery was sloppy even here. The man hadn't cleaned after he had his fun, and that choice was coming to haunt him. Tom almost grimaced in sympathy as he watched his wife's shoulders rise as she peered in each and every cell, noting the blood, the instruments, the restraints.

"Show me your favorite room, Corvus," she said, turning to where he leaned against the wall breathing harshly. Her hands shook and her fingers clenched onto her wand so tightly her knuckles were blanching, but her gaze was steady as she stared at the slumped figure before her. "And don't bother lying. You will answer all my questions honestly, because if you lie, Tom will tell me and things will be so much more unpleasant for you."

Corvus coughed, glancing sideways at Tom before he nodded in Hermione's direction. "Yes, my Lady," he said hoarsely, heaving himself to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. "It's this way."

He led her to the third cell down and opened the door, glancing back at her before preceding her into the room at her indication.

The corner of Tom's lips twitched up as he recalled just which room they were in. While some of the cells contained wall restraints and tables with straps, this cell held a full-sized bed with a bondage system. The Dark Lord considered that perhaps revealing this _particular_ room as his favorite was not to bode well for Avery.

His Gaza glanced at the bed and then back at Avery with hatred sparking her eyes. "Go stand by the bed, Corvus," she ordered. "Do not sit. I'm going to familiarize myself with all of your many tools and then you and I are going to talk about your appalling treatment of Epona."

Corvus's jaw clenched as he stood but the man seemed too focused on his quickly returning health to bother with a response. The pain of the occlumency intrusion would be fading into a normal headache now, and his Death Eater was smart enough to know the best thing he could do for himself was to gather his wits about him.

Tom, for his part, cast a discrete scourgify on the wall before leaning against it and watching the scene before him play out. He was intrigued by this vicious side of his Deliciae, this piece of her that was petty and cruel and delicious. What would she do, with all of the Avery Dungeon resources at her disposal?

His eyes followed her as she glanced along the implements of pain that lined the wall in tidy rows, the only show of organization to be found in this hole of a place. Bullwhips hung alongside canes and strops, none of which appeared at first glance to hold any additional magic, while enchanted chains and restraint cuffs dotted the area directly beneath. He watched as his Gaza ran a finger inside one, pulling back quickly with a yelp and eying her digit as a red mark sprouted immediately along the tender fingertip.

She glanced back at Corvus coldly and a hint of a grin flashed across his face before he managed to conceal it. "Stinging Cuffs," he said, answering her unspoken question with a forced, flat affect. "The insides are lined with something similar to jellyfish tentacles."

Hermione's fist clenched and she turned back to the wall, eyes closed as she bared her teeth at nothing for the briefest of moments. Tom watched as Corvus closed his own eyes and took a calming breath through his nose, the attempt doing nothing for his current predicament (Tom noted) as the pain in Avery's body had faded and he was now faced with a room full of his desires and memories.

Somewhere between the front room and here, Corvus had dropped his towel and the man's cock was rapidly filling with blood at the sight of his many, many torture implements. He moved to close his robe in an attempt to hide the arousal, but with a flick of his wand, Tom tore the garment away from him and brought it across the room to land in a pile at the Dark Lord's feet.

Corvus grimaced, looking to the ceiling as his eyelashes fluttered in frustration, while Tom smiled coldly on. Oh yes, reminding his little wife of the man's sexual sadism was going to go quite poorly for Corvus, but that was hardly Tom's problem. He wanted to see what she would do with this situation, and losing her anger too early would result in losing her nerve as well.

That could not be allowed to happen.

In truth, he often took away the clothing of people he was punishing regardless. It was important they understood their place at that moment, and that place was not the heir of a pureblood house or a highly respected member of society; when they were under his wand for correction, they were his beasts, his poorly loved pets, his lowest form of entertainment. None of what they were required clothing and giving them protection from the humiliation of nakedness was just confusing.

Physical torture was much more effective when combined with psychological elements whenever possible.

At the sound of cloth whooshing through the air, his Gaza turned and fixed him with a confused look. Her gaze settled on the robe at his feet before flicking to Corvus and quickly down to his now fully prominent arousal. Tom watched as her eyes flashed with disgust and anger before she abandoned her perusal of the many implements of torture on the wall and turned her attention fully to Avery.

"Epona Avery arrived at our home early this morning with innumerable injuries and moderate blood loss," she said coldly, walking towards Corvus with her fists clenched at her sides. "What could she have possibly done that was so abhorrent that you disobeyed a direct order from your Lord?"

Corvus's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed as he quickly looked over at Tom, ignoring Hermione completely in what Tom suspected was going to be a decision he would live to regret.

"I was not to vent my frustrations or seek pleasure through the application of pain on my wife," he answered, the spark of defiance back in his eyes now that the pain had faded from his occlumency assault, "And I have violated no rule therein. My Lord, she has not tasted my wand, _either_ wand, since the edict. Barring today, of course."

A growl from his wife had Tom raising an eyebrow and flicking his eyes towards his Deliciae, noting the way her magic was swirling around her and her eyes were darker than he'd ever seen them.

Corvus, however, was evidently feeling self-righteous and ignored the brewing storm, fixing his eyes on Hermione with a sneer.

"However, Epona is well aware that she is not to go wandering without permission," he told her, voice deep and firm as he recited his reasoning. "Yesterday, she not only did so but also chose to have lunch with an 'old friend' from school. A male friend. This severely violated the rules that have been set forth for her and therefore, I corrected the action. Not for my pleasure, but for her own sake."

His attention snapped back to Tom and he looked at him with something approaching certainty, delusions of rightness dancing in his eyes. "I have a right to discipline my wife when she needs correction," he stated imploringly. "I have a right to rule my house as the head of it. I apologize for Epona bothering you, I do, but this is not how things are done in the Death Eaters. This is not your concern, my Lord. I'm I _nner Circle_ , I have _rights_ , and I did not disobey you-"

"Get on the bed, Corvus," his Gaza interrupted with a tone of voice that could burn cities and raze entire countries.

Corvus glanced at her before looking back at Tom once more. "My Lor-"

"GET ON THE FUCKING BED, CORVUS!" Hermione screamed, magic pouring out of her in waves that had Tom's blood flowing swiftly south even as he looked to his lackey and shrugged. Avery did not have to listen to his wife of course (he almost hoped the man would not, in all honesty,) but it was not a choice Tom would personally recommend at this point.

Corvus breathed heavily, panting as he considered before climbing onto the bed and settling himself cross-legged. He opened his mouth to speak but a quick incarcerous from his Deliciae's mouth had the wind knocked from the man swiftly as the ropes drug him backwards and secured all four limbs to the bedposts.

Hermione's eyes closed and her hands buried in her own hair briefly as she breathed deeply, fury and a thirst for retribution sparking in the air around her as her fingers ruined her perfectly coiffed hairstyle and her whole body shook with the force of her emotions.

She was beautiful in her tempest.

She was Kali, Freya, Pele. She was his Valkyrie, his treasure. She was just... _his_.

Her eyes opened and Tom caught the briefest glimpse of her before she turned to her prey like the fucking predator she was. Her irises were black as obsidian and twice as hard and in a moment of weakness and affection he had never known anything like, the Dark Lord shivered.

"I cannot have justice for every life you've destroyed down in this Hades, devoid of life and light and anything good," she stated almost calmly, almost frigidly, even as her hands continued to shake and her body continued to shed excess magic. "But I can have retribution for Epona. And I will, Corvus. I will have it and I will gift this memory to her, along with a bouquet of flowers, at your fucking funeral."

With her focus firmly on the struggling man in the bed, his Deliciae addressed him softly.

"What caused the concussion, Tom?"

Tom licked his lips and studied the line of her neck, the swell of her hips, before he answered.

"He smacked her head on the floor, little Gaza."

Her wand twitched and the pillow beneath Corvus's head transfigured itself to smooth, unforgiving stone. A whispered word and the ropes loosened on his limbs, allowing his body to lift five feet from the bed and slam back down. A sickening crunching sound came through the room and Corvus screamed even as the ropes tightened back down and his head was pressed back into the stone beneath his head.

A flick of Hermione's wrist saw the familiar diagnostic spell running through his body and one of her shoulders lifted in a half shrug.

"A moderate concussion," she said quietly, "But close enough. The cuts on her body?"

Tom swallowed back his arousal as he watched her work, forcing his focus to the memory he had read in Corvus's mind.

"The Dagger of Repentance."

"Accio Dagger of Repentance," his Deliciae said firmly, walking towards the bed as it slapped into her hand. She stood over Corvus's form before grasping it firmly and slamming it to the hilt into his left shoulder. Another scream sounded from the bed, followed by whimpers as she left the blade in his skin.

"That's inefficient, Corvus," she said lightly, flicking the hilt once and ignoring the shriek that followed. "You should know from Antonin's notes the dagger only reflects back the pain one has caused on the user if it's left in the skin. Then again, I suppose Epona would not have much to experience in reflection. You, however..."

She trailed off and moved back to the end of the bed, her back still to Tom as she placed a steadying hand on one of the bedposts.

"I assume the broken wrist and sprained knee came about through the use of Alarte Ascendre and Everte Statum?" she asked calmly.

"Correct," Tom breathed, afraid to break the spell his normally compassionate wife was under, afraid to ruin the privilege of seeing her viciousness in action.

"I have no intention of untying you," she said, moving her attention back to Corvus who whimpered from his spot on the bed.

Tom suspected his mind was addled from the concussion, lowering his inhibitions and allowing his pain to show through entirely. That, too, was a sort of submission and he found it strangely exhilarating to watch. He always avoided head injuries at all costs; when one tortured for a purpose instead of sport, it was important that one's victims remembered the lessons. This was an interesting departure.

"So I suppose we'll just have to do this manually," his little wife finished, moving to the right side of the bed and placing her wand against Corvus's wrist. "This is a spell that I learned from a Medical Magics textbook. It's a modified cutting curse, to be used to cleanly break a bone when one heals improperly. Mind you, the patient is usually rendered unconscious when this happens."

Corvus cried beneath her, turning hazy eyes to try to catch her own as she kept her head down and her focus entirely on his wrist.

"Please don- AGHH!"

A whispered 'diffindo ossum' and the sound of a bone breaking echoed through the room, along with a yelp from Avery as his back arched at the pain.

She moved to the opposite knee and shrugged sharply. "I don't know how to induce a sprain, so..."

The knee cap cut in half with a sharp exhale from Corvus, who seemed beyond yelling at his point, twitching as tears soaked his face and blood began to seep from his scalp and onto the stone pillowing his head as he unintentionally ground his own flesh into it.

Hermione moved back to the foot of the bed, resuming her previous position as her shoulders scrunched up and she breathed heavily. Tom's chest had begun to pulse in distress when the Dagger of Repentance made an appearance, but the feeling was swiftly growing and despite his sheer joy (something incredibly rare for him) at watching his wife torture a man, his empathy entreaty was beginning to beat at him harshly.

"Gaza-"

"I obviously know what the cruciatus is for," she said slowly, shaking out her arms as her magic roiled around her in distress instead of fury, "but what did he use the Imperio to force her to do?"

Tom shook his head, though she, of course, could not see him as he considered the results of revealing that tidbit to her. Her upset was becoming too much now and while she was determined to get her justice, she did not need to know this.

"You've done enough, Deliciae," he said, stepping forward until he could wrap his arms around her waist from behind. She stiffened, refusing to melt into him like usual, but she didn't push him away either. "You said you would have justice for Epona and you have. Allow me to finish the more distasteful portion of this session."

"What was the Imperio for, Tom?" she asked again, but her voice was weaker, her resolve wavering, and he pressed his advantage brutally.

"You entreated my protection, little wife," Tom said smoothly, turning her in his arms until he could cup her chin and force her to look at him. Her eyes whirled with uncertainty and guilt and he clicked his tongue. "Allow me to do my job; allow me to shield you from that which would hurt you. You've done so well, cared for your little project and kept to what you promised yourself, but now it is my turn. I do not beg, and yet I implore you; let me take care of this. Let me take care of you."

His Gaza's chin wobbled ever so slightly but she nodded all the same, collapsing into him as tears squeezed from her eyes. He'd find it strange and disturbing that her emotions no longer disgusted him if he were to give himself the time to ponder, which he explicitly _did not._ It was pointless to wonder why she was different anymore and the consideration of such only served to make him feel... complicated. Origins aside, she was now his exception and so he simply held his little wife for a few moments of comfort before leading her pointedly to the doorway.

"Wait for me in the entrance hall," Tom told her, pushing her gently out into the hallway, "and take the time to push this day behind your occlumency walls so that it will affect you less."

His wife opened her mouth to protest and he cut her off before she could say something noble about living with the consequences of her actions or how she deserved the guilt after such choices.

"Would you change it?" he asked coldly, stepping out into the hallway with her and into her space. "Now that you have sought retribution and vindication for the soon-to-be Epona Selwyn, would you take it back if you could?"

Her eyes hardened just the right amount at the reminder of _why_ Corvus deserved his fate and he bit back a smirk of triumph as she shook her head.

"Then you deserve to live freely without a memory that would haunt your largely inconvenient moralities."

A ghost of a smile flitted across her face at his familiar complaint and the pain in his chest eased infinitesimally before she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and retreated into the house. Tom watched as she paused just before heading up the stairs and turned back to him, her eyes fixed on his face as if she was searching for something.

"Do you promise, Erus, to complete whatever justice needs to be met for Epona?" she asked quietly, staring at him intently as if searching his face for truth.

His soul tingled at the pet name but he forced his face to stay blank as he nodded seriously.

"For you, Deliciae," he said smoothly, reminding her that while he cared very little for the other woman's suffering, he would do whatever he reasonably could to make his Gaza safe and happy. If she wanted her pet vindicated, she would have it.

She swallowed and gave him the smallest of grins before disappearing up the stairs. His eyes flashed back to the broken body of Corvus Avery on the bed as he walked back into the room, a wicked smile spreading across his face at the reminder of what his wife was capable of.

"She's quite the woman, isn't she?" Tom said softly, striding to the head of the bed casually where he looked down into Avery's pain-filled face. Corvus forced unfocused, agonized eyes to him and he swallowed.

"Please, my Lord-"

"She's developed a fondness for Epona," he continued, talking over the Avery Heir as he let his attention wander, a small crease furrowing his brow. "I don't understand it; some sort of emphasis on justice and compassion that is quite beneath me, I'm afraid. But despite her absolute hatred of you, I was still going to keep you."

Tom reached out a hand, stroking a finger along to other man's sweaty brow in an approximation of fondness before wiping his hand on the sheet.

"My Lord, I did not disob-"

"You were useful, Corvus," Tom continued, moving away from the bed and towards the wall of torture implements. "I should have liked very much to keep and use you for your niched skill set for a very long time. You had a bright enough future before this rather fatal mistake."

His eyes fell on the Stinging Cuffs and his eyebrow lifted before he hummed an affirmative sound, wandlessly and silently breaking the chain that held them together. He only required one after all.

"That's all over now, of course," Tom continued, moving back to the bed as he canceled the incarcerous binding the man. Corvus immediately attempted to move, likely in an instinctive escape attempt, but Tom tsked before casting a quietly murmured 'Imperio.'

Immediately, Avery's face took on a placid, accepting look and he relaxed down into the bed.

"Now, I have sworn to my wife that you will suffer as Epona has," he said absentmindedly, glancing down at the cuff in his hand and then back at the man still bleeding on the bed.

"Think of whatever memories you require and become aroused," Tom ordered, ignoring Corvus entirely over the next few minutes as the man's chest began to heave even with the dagger still embedded and his face flushed and his cock swelled with blood.

Tom glanced down impassively at the other man's member, sizing the cuff in his hand properly while carefully avoiding the stinging tendrils within.

"While I understand that you liked to force Epona to pretend to enjoy intercourse with you whilst under the influence of your imperious," he said with a disgusted lift to his lip, pressing the cuff into Corvus's palm, "I have no interest in fucking you. This will have to suffice as a sort of surrogate punishment."

Tom turned away and stretched his neck, moving back to the torture wall to find his next potential tool. "Go ahead and thrust into the stinging cuff," he demanded, ignoring the sound of agony from behind him that fought through his spell as he fingered a cat-o-nine-tails curiously. "If you start to flag at all due to the pain, you may cease movement long enough to fantasize yourself back to hardness before resuming your task."

His eyes fell briefly to the doorway and a quick picture of his little wife's face flashed in his mind. He tilted his head, debating, before he swiftly silenced the room. Considering that Corvus still had quite a bit of masturbatory torture and the cruciatus to endure before Tom could finally dispose of him, he imagined things were soon going to become very loud indeed.


	26. Ecdysis

It was with shaky knees and shakier hands that Hermione found herself in a little parlor beside the entrance hall at Avery Villa, rubbing her eyes roughly as she gazed out across the expanse of the ancestral grounds. The sun was shining outside and despite the dilapidated state of the place and the time of year, flowers charmed to perpetually bloom struggled to lay their claim against suffocating weeds. A half-frozen lake by a gazebo was just visible through the large, floor to ceiling windows, an appealing picture where the Avery Family of generations past could take their children on charming picnics and congratulate themselves on being proper and ever so pure.

It was a wholesome picture that was also a lie; it wasn't as if the dungeons in the house were new. How many pureblooded homes had them, and more disturbingly, how many were still in use?

Hermione swallowed heavily as she turned away from the deceiving tableau, kicking off her heels as she crossed to the settee and collapsed down gracelessly. She curled her knees up underneath her body and draped herself over the end, resting her head in a cradle of her arms.

Only a floor down, Tom was currently finishing what she started and inflicting unnamable horrors on Corvus. Her feelings about today were more than a little complicated, to say the least. Her head swam with guilt and vindication; with anxiety and satisfaction.

She had tortured a man. The once Great Hermione Granger (now Hermione Riddle,) Golden Girl of Gryffindor, one-third of the Golden Trio, best friend of the uncorrupted Savior of the Wizarding World Harry Potter, had _tortured a man_.

And while part of her soul ached with the knowledge that she had been the one to do it, no part of her wished that it hadn't been done. Corvus deserved to suffer and she wanted him to; it was just, it was right, it was _righteous_ and her only regret was that she, personally, had to live with the fact that it was her own hands that had been dirtied.

Hermione bit her lip as her shoulders tightened at her revelation. She... didn't like this about herself. It was one thing to be truly light, to be unwilling to allow even the worst of the worst to be harmed on one's watch; it was one thing to be a hero. It was another thing entirely to simply not want to hold the knife that caused the blood to flow.

This was not the first act of cruelty she had committed in the name of what was just, but as always, she walked a line that kept her from crossing over into becoming a creature she was not sure she'd know how to come back from. She had kept Rita Skeeter imprisoned, but she hadn't ground the little beetle underfoot. She had scarred Marietta Edgecombe, but only when the girl had deliberately and willfully turned traitor. She had thrown Umbridge to the Centaurs, but she certainly hadn't encouraged the woman to continue to antagonize them as she was drug away.

The punishment had fit the crime and, in each case, she had not done any more or less than each person had deserved.

But today, giving Corvus the entirety of what he deserved and ending his life would have broken a part of her. He was so heinous, so irredeemable, that bringing him to justice would have brought a new stain to her soul that would not have washed clean, and she knew that. Corvus's death was promised, and she had yet to take another's life from them. And when she had approached that familiar figurative boundary and considered that this time, she may well and truly cross it-

Tom. Tom had stopped her before she became something she no longer recognized; Tom had kept her safe.

With a sigh, Hermione breathed deeply as she let herself slip into the trance state that allowed her to manipulate her shielding. She was practiced at this now and it was only minutes before she dove into her own mind and began to build a new wall, alongside her others, for this experience with Corvus Avery. Unlike the solid boundaries she usually built, this one she wove into a sort of frosted glass, transparent yet cloudy. She stood inside her swirling consciousness and watched the session in the dungeons once more. The memory was less vibrant now, softened in its intensity, but very much present.

The wall smoothed the sharp edges of the experience but did not take it away from her. She needed to live with what she did, to remember what she was capable of the next time an evil needed to be brought to heel.

She licked her lips as she returned to the present, staring at the diamond pattern that made up the fabric of the carpet. It was less painful than she would have guessed to admit that she was no longer the Golden Girl; that even if she hadn't crossed _the_ line, she had certainly crossed _a_ line and she was now different than she had been when they had entered the house this morning.

There was no Harry to admire and fear disappointing, no Ron to be abhorred by her choices. She didn't have the Order to issue suffocating edicts or her mentors to steer every wavering impulse back to the side of the light. In a sick way, she felt free, reborn. She was unconfined and without any limitations to her morality and her ethics but her own, self-imposed boundaries; the world had opened to her. Forbidden magics were there for the taking, theories that were too dangerous or borderline where waiting for her exploration.

The lightest of magics had been stifling, in a way. The expansive future of pragmaticism over unyielding moral virtuousness, grey over light, had been opened today when she did the wrong thing for the right reasons.

Tom had been (obnoxiously) right again. The shielding allowed her emotional distance to view the day as she felt she truly should (or at least, she admitted to herself, in the way she wished to.) Epona would be safe now, she had been vindicated, and a reprehensible figure with too much power in the organization Hermione was now a very high-ranking member of had been dealt with swiftly. No one would miss Corvus Avery and he'd never subjugate someone weaker than himself ever again.

Uncurling herself from her position, she groaned as all her muscles protested the movement. She glanced out the window and noted that a few hours had passed since she had left the dungeons. It wasn't surprising, really; the occlumency meditations were extremely intensive and even if she no longer felt completely magically drained after making a few changes, they were still time-consuming.

With a heave, Hermione pushed herself to her feet and stretched her whole body, reaching up onto her toes as she extended her arms as far towards the ceiling as she could. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she realized that in their fervor, neither she nor Tom had eaten. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of eating anything from the Avery kitchens and sighed when she realized that left her with only one, truly viable solution.

Merlin, she was becoming as bad as the average born and reared pureblood.

"Gilmy?" she called tentatively, wincing with guilt when the little elf popped into the sitting room and shot her the brightest of grins.

"Missy Mione be callings Gilmy?"

"I'm sorry to bother you," Hermione said quickly, smoothing at her skirt as she glanced at the house elf. "But Tom and I haven't eaten anything yet and I don't want to leave him here alone..."

Gilmy's eyes widened and she let out an affronted squeak.

"Yous not be eating and the Master, too?" she said sadly, fixing Hermione with watery eyes. "Gilmy is a bad elf, not taking cares of the Master and Mistress-"

"Oh no, Gilmy!" Hermione said frantically, quite sure this was headed towards an unearned punishment. "This is entirely my fault. I should have called you much sooner, but now that you're here, I would appreciate it very much if you could pop back to Nidum Serpentis and make up a lunch tray."

She watched Gilmy closely, silently praying that the direct order of a task would save the elf from the urge to punish herself for a perceived fault. After a few moments, Gilmy nodded firmly, clearly successfully diverted, and Hermione breathed a muted sigh of relief.

"Gilmy be backs in just a few minutes with the tray," she said quickly, before popping out of existence and, presumably, back home to prepare something.

Hermione paced the room, trying to increase her circulation after sitting for so long until a tray magically appeared on the end table between two armchairs. Her mouth watered as she noted the chips along with Cheddar and Chutney sandwiches and lemonade to drink. She immediately made herself a plate and settled back onto the settee, eating much more voraciously than usual in a bid to recover some of the magical energy she had expended during the day.

She was tucking into her second sandwich when Tom arrived in the doorway, bearing a flower in hand and watching with amusement as she turned to him after hastily swallowing down a bite.

Silence reigned momentarily as Hermione cast around for what to say, what to ask, in the face of the many things that had been done today. In a rare moment of cowardice, she took what she assumed was the easy approach and inquired about the flower.

Tom's eyes fell to the bloom as he lifted it up to eye level and ran a finger along a delicate petal.

"It seemed appropriate," he said, turning his attention back to her, "That he represents his sins in death as he failed to do so in life. A Black-Eyed Susan, for your justice."

Hermione bit her lip as a small wave of nausea ran through her. "Is that his..."

"Body?" He finished casually, tossing the flower onto one of the armchairs and reaching for a chip. "Correct. Shortly, Corvus Avery will officially disappear on an apparent binge of privilege and liquor. Epona will worry and fret in the press, for a time, before announcing that her bond to Corvus is severed, implying his death. His body will not be recovered. She will, of course, be required to mourn publicly before we secure her a new, more advantageous marriage."

"More advantageous for whom?" she asked uneasily, pushing away her half-eaten sandwich as her appetite abandoned her.

"All parties involved," Tom answered smoothly, moving to transfigure a truly unfortunate throw pillow into a long, rectangular box. He set the Black-Eyed Susan in the container, summoning Corvus's wand from inside Hermione's robes and adding that as well before he moved to secure himself a plate and cup of lemonade. He paused, glancing slyly at the box, before seating himself in the free armchair.

"Well, most parties, at any rate," he told her with a knicker's melting smirk.

She watched him chew and swallow a few bites of his chips as she thought before Hermione spoke again.

"Won't the Aurors be suspicious when his magical signature disappears so early?" she pointed out. "Surely he'd continue to use his wand during this 'party binge,' as it were."

Tom grinned at her as if she was a very, very clever and yet very confused puppy.

"I own the Aurors, Deliciae," he reminded her. "Bastien is the captain and will ensure that this particular case inadvertently slips through the cracks. It happens every day, you know, that some atrocity or another is failed to be investigated properly. It's an unfortunate symptom of the bureaucracy."

Hermione sighed and slumped down on the lounge, biting her lip as she glanced pointedly out the window.

"That's unacceptable, you know," she said quietly. "I understand that works in our favor, but-"

"You wish to fix the world, my little Gaza?" Tom inquired with a chuckle, taking another bite of his sandwich before offering her a lazy half-shrug. "That should hardly be a problem when we rule it."

While she grimaced at the notion, she kept quiet, choosing to watch the flowers outside the window instead of her husband. She tried to simply keep her mind blank. If she allowed herself to think, her brain would inevitably fall to the transfigured body of Corvus Avery in the room and she suspected she could not cope with that reality at the moment.

Tom finished his food and eyed her contemplatively before setting aside his plate and glass and striding towards the chaise. He crouched in front of her, roughly clutching her chin as he forced her face to his before studying her intently. She allowed her gaze to meet his and whatever he saw there must have pleased him because Tom released her more gently than he had secured her and planted a barely-there kiss to her temple as he rose lithely back to his feet.

"I see you took my advice about the occlumency shields," he said, staring down at her as she shifted on the couch. "My chest is surprisingly pain-free and your face is strangely untroubled.

Hermione sighed, but after a moment of debate, she offered him a short nod of confirmation.

"I- I have never been capable of allowing the strong to hurt the weak and not exacting the strongest of penalties I can upon the guilty party," she admitted, even as her shoulders tensed around her ears and she rose to walk to the window and stare out onto the expanse of Avery Villa once more. Crossing her arms across her chest, Hermione considered her next words as she absentmindedly chewed on her bottom lip. "As a teenager, my resources were limited and that made me unaware of what I can do. Now, my resources are _unlimited_ , and part of me worries about what I was capable of down there. Corvus deserved to suffer, and Epona suffered for years and years at his hands. What was given to him was but a fraction of her pain. And when the opportunity came to hurt him in the same way she had been hurt, helpless and unable to escape, I took it."

A shiver tore down her spine in spite of herself and Hermione was unable to suppress it.

Warm hands settled on her waist, sliding forward until Tom's palms pressed into her stomach and forced her arse and back to nestle into his front. She leaned back into the safety of his chest, reveling in the strong musculature there and the way her husband's breath stirred the curls that escaped around her face as he leaned down to speak directly into her ear.

"And does that frighten you, little Gaza?" he murmured, biting lightly at the lobe so close to his mouth before licking at the soreness. "To learn of the darkness that lurks in your heart, even if it is directed towards what you perceive as vindication?"

Hermione tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, threading the fingers of both hands with Tom's as she considered before she finally forced herself to answer.

"What frightens me is that the only part of what happened today that disturbed me was that I was the one doing it," she whispered into the air. "I know it would be different with someone who was innocent or unable to defend themselves normally, but we removed his ability to fight back and I hurt him. The means were upsetting, but now that the sting has been taken out of it... the graphicness, the act itself does not bother me. And that- It is much different than I anticipated."

Tom froze for a moment, brilliant mind almost audibly whirring at the admission before he hummed his understanding and moved his lips lower again to press slightly open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck.

"Someday soon," he said, "I will own all of Britain. First this country, and then the world, could tremble beneath my feet, little wife. Power, immortality, and the fate of the masses will rest in my frozen, blackened palms. I care little for their pain, for their desires, even for their life. I seek only to be victorious, to see my plans come to fruition; this you know."

One palm slipped up in between her breasts and further to cradle her throat in that familiar hold and her own hands spasmed at his words, a reminder of exactly who Tom was.

"Will you allow me to slice them open, Deliciae?" He asked, caressing her neck lightly beneath his fingers. "To use their lifeblood to lubricate my passage into ultimate power? Will you stand beside me as I subjugate and dominate and force every soul to bow before their rightful god?"

Horror spread through her limbs as she wrenched herself forward and away, turning abruptly as she pressed herself back into the glass and stared at her husband with incredulity and disgust.

"No!" she denied firmly, shocked and disappointed that after all this time, after all she had revealed to him, he could think for even a second that she-

"No," he agreed, pressing his arms on either side of her head against the window to cage her in as he leaned forward with a wry, fond grin. "You'll fight me, Gaza. Recall what you came back in time to do; it was not to stop me, not to attempt to prevent the impossible. In this reality, _in all realities_ , I will win."

"You came back to temper me," he continued, wrapping an escaped curl around one of his fingers and tugging on it lightly. "Your wearisome ethics remain very much intact. I have often referenced the death of the snake that cannot shed its skin to grow; you could truly live, little wife, and grow you may. But the same serpent at your core you will remain. Were Corvus an innocent or had he made less of what you consider to be egregious choices, he would not be deceased, transfigured into a flower, and shoved into a box."

She slumped slightly as she conceded the logic of his words, attempting to swallow the fear that came with the ways she was changing, the ways her ideals were expanding and she was losing all boundaries on her magic she herself had not created.

"Tom-" Hermione started, but he pressed a finger to her lips and leaned in ever closer.

"Soon, Deliciae, so very soon I can almost savor the taste on my tongue," Tom interrupted, brushing his lips along her cheekbone as he moved ever closer to her mouth, "mortality will trouble us no longer. I will be the god I was born to be and you will be my goddess and together, we could rule this nation, this world. I would share this with none but you, allow myself to be steered by _none but you_. I will be judge and jury out of necessity, I will determine who lives fruitfully and who does not in this existence I am creating, and I will do it alone. _Unless_ you are willing to do it, too."

Hermione inhaled sharply as he stilled, lips against her skin as he waited for her to concede or deny him. _This_ was what her brutality had taught him; this was how he absorbed what she was capable of.

Now, he offered her a choice:

Truly be the immortal at his side, accept her place as equally responsible and equally damned, and be given the ability to mold the world just like she had asked for. She could have her hands in the clay beside his own, build the mountains and crumble others, but she would have to own it. She would have to be as close to his equal as he could ever allow; it would mean no longer being his reluctant conscience, his fetters and chains and a force that tried to hold him back. It would mean becoming a force that propelled him forward instead, in the right directions, and shared in the culpability of what they created.

Or she could remain, a serpent too small for the skin she wore as she flailed against his tides and stayed at his mercy. She could stay less than in his world; less influential but less liable too and with far less blood and guilt on her head.

This choice wasn't easy and it wasn't without terrors but it was _clear_. She was Hermione Riddle nee Granger, a Gryffindor at heart, and she was brave enough to do this, too.

And if her decision was influenced the tiniest bit by the fact that she loved him, that she loved Tom Riddle with a desperation that made the thought of him descending into madness and indomitable tyranny (as he likely would unchecked) absolutely unbearable, she forgave herself for her folly. Albus Dumbledore, who she had once respected and admired, had been absolutely sure that the reason for Tom's descent was that he lacked love on the most fundamental of levels. She didn't know if that was true, but she did know that she'd given herself over to this, and she'd try.

She'd try to love him enough that the whole world did not have to die before he was satisfied. And if that meant that someday some god would weigh her heart and find it heavier for the culpability she was willingly shouldering, she'd just have to hope that Tom was right and they really would live forever.

"Yes," Hermione said simply, because there was nothing else to say. She didn't have flowery words or snark or an eloquent warning for this; not this time. This was defeat wrapped in the sweetest veneer of victory, the inevitable filling of one's lungs with water when drowning.

Tom's finger moved and his lips pressed to her own, desperate need and triumph whispered into the warmth of her mouth and the depths of her soul.

This was the way a serpent shed its skin and was imperceptibly changed in the after.

 **AN: So, a few housekeeping things to address quickly:**

 **First, I know this chapter was a little shorter than normal. However, this was really where the scene ended naturally so... *Shrug***

 **Second, I wanted to let you all know that Book One of Pendulum is quickly coming to a close! This is insane to me, as this entire story was originally plotted to be around 50k to 60k, but whoops, here we are. There is a little time jump to Book Two. I will not give any spoilers, but if you have questions, I will answer them as best I can without giving anything away over on my tumblr (link in my profile.) Much love to you, my very best of readers!**


	27. Invertere

Tom Riddle sat in the chair behind his desk with the back of his head resting on the wood, studying the ceiling in a quiet moment of contemplation while he waited for the Mouseling to arrive.

He really would have liked to have fucked his little wife on the parlor floor earlier.

She was just so unbelievably stunning in her submission, he thought, inhaling sharply at the memory of the look in her eyes and the tone of her voice when she had said yes. With that one concession, one word, she had given in to so very many things.

Yes, I'll stand beside you, she'd said. Yes, I'll be more than your unwilling wife; I'll be your partner.

A partner was a concept that he would have scoffed at a year ago. The idea that the Dark Lord would share his rule with anyone, for any reason, was laughable. Why on earth would he do so? He was perfectly capable of governing all on his own and to even consider sharing his hard-won power with someone else should have made him nauseous. And still today, place anyone aside from his Gaza in that position in his theoretical musings and he found himself overwhelmed with the urge to murder something.

But slot her there instead, keep her even a little bit beneath his own position, and he was much more aroused, amused, _excited almost_ , than disturbed.

So he'd looked into her pretty little face with her pretty little lips giving in and yet claiming a victory all at the same time, with the body of a traitor transfigured in the room, with the recollection of her savagery still fresh in his mind, and all Tom had wanted was to absolutely fuck his Deliciae into the floor.

He hadn't, though, which left him feeling increasingly frustrated as his Gaza retreated to her study for a rest after their rather busy day. His current state was making him cranky and that likely did not bode well for Antonin, but he wasn't particularly bothered by that. He had not deemed it necessary to inform his little wife of his evening meeting, and if he chose to blow off a little steam by playing with his follower, well...

That was his right, after all.

With a growl of annoyance, Tom stood and summoned the fire whiskey and a glass wandlessly. He rolled his neck in agitation before pouring, staring broodingly across the room and into empty space as he drank the liquid in one, long pull and poured another. He felt too small for his skin tonight, trapped in his body and in this room as he awaited his follower.

Something in him was restless and he had already murdered one relatively useful Death Eater today; what would he do with this one if Antonin's thoughts and feelings proved to be a betrayal?

And make no mistake, coveting Tom's wife would be the ultimate betrayal. And yet, his hands were tied with this particular man in ways that made the Dark Lord want to curse him on principle. Dolohov was essentially unkillable if one considered the ramifications of the bond Hermione and he shared.

'That bond,' Tom thought viciously, gripping the glass between his fingers tightly with rage. He moved to stand in front of the fire, glaring into the flames as he seethed. Never had he so regretted a decision than he did allowing that bond to be made. He would rip it out at the root if to do so would not harm his Gaza in unpredictable ways.

When he had chosen to let it happen, he had hardly cared for her. He had assumed, in fact, that to create a different tie within his organization would allow him to increase her devotion to him without Tom actually having to do additional work.

Now though... now he jealously guarded every last inch of her. Never before had he cared for another person's feelings so long as he had their loyalty and their fear. Their affections could lie anywhere, but he demanded their obedience. With his wife, however, he wanted-

He wanted-

"Gilmy bes bringing the Lordy Dowli-hoff to Masters study, just like hes telling Gilmy," came the little elf's voice, interrupting Tom's musings as he turned on heel and stared at the man in front of him. His eyes never strayed to the creature as he made a sharp gesture with his wrist, dismissing Gilmy wordlessly as his gaze continued to bore into a visibly apprehensive Dolohov.

A sharp pop announced the elf's departure and the two men found themselves alone in Tom's study standing in absolute silence.

A moment passed, then another, before Antonin seemed to come to some sort of decision and dropped to his knees.

"My Lord," he said quietly, voice firm for all that his fingers twitched and his jaw spasmed as he kept his eyes trained firmly on the floor in front of him.

"Mouseling," Tom greeted him smoothly, his tone belying none of the wild rage he felt as he carelessly tossed his glass into the fireplace. The flames flared brightly as they interacted with the liquor, forcing an involuntary wince from Antonin, and Tom found himself torn between being soothed or further angered by the fear.

Normally the terror of his prey appeased him somewhat, assuming they weren't blathering or failing to contain it, but fear implied there was something to be afraid of. What reason did Antonin have to shiver so if he had done nothing wrong?

"Are you sure you should not be prostrating yourself lower, little mouse?" Tom breathed, moving slowly with even strides until he stood behind where the man kneeled on the carpet. He set his hand gently on his shoulder, ignoring the way the other man's whole body tightened at the touch. "Do you have something to beg forgiveness for?"

"No, my Lord," Antonin said breathlessly, forcing himself still after his involuntary stiffening. "I have offered no offense and followed all directives. This I so swear."

Tom moved to stand with his thighs directly behind Dolohov's shoulders, nodding noncommittally as his fingers trailed over the wizard's shoulders, up his neck, and into his hair. He grasped the strands and wrenched backwards violently, forcing a partially suppressed grunt of pain from Antonin's throat.

Dolohov clutched at his own thighs, forcing his hands still as his neck craned uncomfortably backward in an unnatural position, bringing his eyes to Tom's darkened ones.

"Do you love her?" Tom asked softly, bringing his free hand up to caress the expanse of Antonin's exposed throat in a threatening approximation of tenderness.

"Yes," Dolohov breathed, wincing and choking slightly as Tom's fingers tightened around his Adam's Apple and squoze. He quickly continued in an effort to continue speaking before he no longer could.

"But not like you do," he said hoarsely.

The Dark Lord froze in place, eyes flashing dangerously at the implications of his follower's words before he tightened his grip further. Antonin wheezed and struggled beneath him before visibly forcing himself to be still and suffer the grip.

"Do not presume to know my mind, Antonin Dolohov," Tom said calmly, holding onto the fragile cartilage painfully tight for a few more moments before releasing his hold and allowing his lackey to cough uncomfortably while still held in position by the hair. "It is not your place to do so."

He swallowed with a wince under Tom's palm, before he responded.

"Of course, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "Forgive me."

"Perhaps," Tom allowed, tilting his head curiously as his fingertips stroked Dolohov's abused throat. "First we shall see whether your mind lends credence to your assertions of innocence. And allow me to assure you, little mouse: if you attempt to hide anything from me behind a wall, I will shred every inch of the sanity inside your skull until all you are capable of is drooling in a corner and reliving the most painful moments of your life. Am I quite clear?"

Antonin blinked rapidly as his eyes shifted away momentarily before they met Tom's once more with defeat reflected in the iris. "As you say, my Lord," he said softly. "All that I am is yours."

Silently, the Dark Lord ghosted in. Skill and practice allowed him to immediately find what he was most interested in reviewing; the day his little wife had ran from her husband and went to HIM.

 _"Kotik, should I call Tom?" Antonin was asking, running his palm up and down his Gaza's spine as the man attempted to soothe her._

Tom bristled at the other man's touch, clawing at the memory just enough to sting and smiling slightly at the whimper of pain from the man beneath him.

 _"Please don't," she had whispered, and Antonin's thoughts had turned grim._

 _"Did he hurt you, my Lady?"_

 _"And if he had?" His Deliciae asked, her tone weak and tired and broken in ways that made his chest ache. "You are as bound to him as you are to me."_

 _Antonin had frozen, wondering at the implications of admitting it, but had ultimately told his Lady all the same._

 _"I am not," he confided in her, watching her response carefully before he continued. "I assumed that is how this would work but..."_

 _"Do you not feel it?" He had wondered. "Or, I suppose you would not, since you do not have the bond caused by the Dark Mark. The bond with the Dark Lord, it- well, it is to assure loyalty. It ties us to him, allows him to call to us and find us, and should alert him to deception or someone turning traitor. But it is imperfect..."_

Tom grasped harder onto the memory with a mix of curiosity and incredulity. The curse of the Morsmordre could be thwarted? That was an unbelievable tidbit of information that would need to be addressed as soon as possible. He leaned further into the memory.

 _"The bond the Dark Mark creates is passive for the most part and therefore, if an active bond exists, it can usurp it. Without a higher bond, the mark would trigger as normal at the first sign of treason, but a higher bond disrupts the process. I did not know this, of course, until I pledged myself to you, but I am an expert of dark curses and the mark is very similar to a curse. Since I felt the shift within myself, I have been researching."_

 _"So what would happen if you were to find your two vows to be in conflict with one another?" His brilliant little wife had asked, eyes sparking with curiosity._

 _"I would die," Antonin answered honestly, less disturbed by the revelation than Tom would have anticipated. "That much I knew, Kotik, so worry not. You are the Dark Lord's wife, his very own, and so I doubt that I will ever find myself in such a position. What I did not know was that while I would die, yes, it would be in fulfilling my vow to you. I would not have a choice, as it were, as to who to betray. My vow to you requires that I give my life to protect you, so in such a circumstance, I would do what you asked. Though the mark would not immediately kill me, as it is my lesser bond, the Dark Lord's knowledge of the betrayal could potentially force it into activating. As soon as he knew, the Dark Mark's nastier attributes could be initiated from his side of it and I would die."_

Fury crackled out of Tom's presence and into the space around him in Antonin's consciousness.

'You did not see fit to tell me this?!' he hissed, words sharpened to talons as they bored their way into Dolohov's mind.

Another whimper of pain echoed, and then the knowledge that his lackey was not capable of sharing this with him came flooding in. The bond, the FUCKING BOND, pitted his need to know this information against what it perceived as Hermione's need to keep her bond primary. In the ensuing struggle for each bond to assert its dominance, his Dark Mark was ground underfoot.

And his wife's bond won.

Tom tightened ethereal claws in anger and dug in, ignoring the scream of agony that echoed around him as he sliced carelessly into the consciousness around him. While Antonin may not have had a choice in keeping this information from him, the man had offered his Gaza this bond with no thought or research into the way this could affect the Morsmordre.

For fuck's sake, Dolohov was supposed to be his expert on cursed objects and dark curses. The Dark Mark WAS a curse. At best, the man fucked up his job royally. At worst...

But Tom felt no impressions of deviousness when he delved for the moment Antonin made the bond. The offer was made freely, without malice, and foolishly.

He allowed his disgust and fury to leech out all around him and felt the wizard's consciousness shudder in response.

'I hope you have enjoyed the thoughtful care I have given your mind so far,' Tom whispered into the space around him. 'After this realization, I find that my gentle touch has quite abandoned me.'

He ripped forward.

He watched with interest as Hermione revealed details of her past life. Some of it was relevant to his plans, or at least could be despite the dramatic timeline change, and it was information he'd not been privy to before. He determined to draw the memory from the man's head soon to examine it at his leisure when the Dark Lord had more time available to him.

Tom moved with purpose past talk of a Ron Weasley and a Harry Potter and Hogwarts. He paused briefly over the prophesies, of which there were two, but he seriously doubted either would be relevant anymore. The second depended on the first and the first spoke of his downfall; his little wife had sworn in her vows to never allow said downfall. These prophesies, and worries of the Boy-Who-Lived, were now little more than the smoke such things were stored as.

Stories of the war, and after, and rebuilding the time turner passed by him. She didn't describe HOW she accomplished her superior occluding or how she induced the analgesia, which was disappointing for his own knowledge, but not surprising. He was also pleased she was intelligent enough to keep some of her secrets, even if she was busy exposing herself with others.

More of the memories rushed by.

" _He told me that I would have more influence beside him, as his wife, than I could ever hope for as an advisor," Hermione had confided as Antonin continued to stroke along her spine. "I was terrified and disgusted and I knew it was a terrible idea but I..."_

Part of him was focused on his annoyance that she would share so many of her weaknesses with another, but a greater part of him was increasingly filled with fury that anyone else should hold so many of her secrets when she was HIS.

" _...better life for muggleborns, like myself," she said sadly. "In my time, I'm presumed dead. No one knew I was living in Hogwarts. But other muggleborns were slaves and toys and employed in the most heinous and disgusting positions imaginable..."_

The Mouseling did not deserve to have so much of her; no one deserved to have so much of her except for him. She was his to hold, his to fuck; his to know and mold and protect and-

" _I don't know how it happened or why," his Deliciae said on a sob. "I want to hate him, despise him. I want to cover myself in the disgust I feel every time he forces a person under his wand or every time he speaks of spilling blood as if it were no more important than afternoon tea."_

That such a man, that any man should have comforted her, held her when she cried, was infuriating. The tears that he had once found so distasteful, the shows of emotion he had abhorred, those were his too. He wanted every single piece of her, from her anguish to her joy, and to have anyone else ever touch it was-

" _I will never forgive myself for the way I fell in love with Tom..."_

There was a momentary pause, a lull in the space of Antonin's consciousness, before Tom pulled the memory to a stop violently. Silence echoed and the impression of Dolohov's resignation seeped all around the Dark Lord as he stood rooted in the stillness, the voice in his own head silent for a moment as he absorbed the words he had just heard.

One breath, two, and then-

Tom dove into the man's memories, slashing and digging, searching with a desperation he refused to consider for any mention of the ways in which she loved him. Another scream of anguish filled his ears but the Dark Lord was unconcerned, uncovering every mention and secret within the layers of the Mouseling's mind.

First...

" _Sometimes, I'm terrified that the need entreaty has dug too deeply. Sometimes, I convince myself that it's not real and it's just the bond making me feel like this, making me crave so much more than just his touch. But I know, in the depths of my soul, that's not true. It's a pleasant lie, a comforting one, but a lie none-the-less..."_

And then...

" _...used to look at him and only see all the things he could become. I only saw the atrocities he was capable of, the suffering he could sow. Now, though, I can't find that loathing anymore. I- It's gone. That defense has abandoned me."_

And finally...

 _"You're in love with him," Antonin had reminded her bluntly, ignoring her flinch at his words. "There is no use in you dancing around that reality. In addition, you seem to believe this is a fact of great import, as if people do not fall in love every single day. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, my Lady, but your great love is nothing special."_

 _Hermione had sputtered in outrage, slamming her spoon down so hard in her bowl that the stew sloshed over the side._

 _"Being infatuated with Lord Voldemort is nothing special?!" she hissed, leaning forward towards him over the table. "I came back to change the world, not to become enraptured by a barbaric arsehole who lacks even the most basic of moralities! Is he charming? Yes. Is he prepossessing? Yes. But there are much more important attributes for a person to possess than general allure and I have plans, damn it! I have contingencies and research and goals that need to be accomplished and nowhere in any of the many parchments detailing those things was there a bullet point reminding me to fall for Tom Riddle!"_

When there was nothing more to find, Tom stilled again, cocooned in the apprehensive mind of his lackey. For a moment, his own thoughts almost leapt to true consideration of what he had learned, but he brutally stalled them. While his consciousness was mostly protected while here, Antonin could still read some of his impressions, and he had no intention of revealing them. He forced his own mind back to his original task.

'You love her,' he whispered into Dolohov's head, giving the man a chance to bring his feelings to the forefront instead of searching for them himself. Tom's rage had abruptly abated and he found himself much more charitably disposed than he had been on his entry and subsequent discovery.

Without hesitation, Antonin pushed forth the emotions. Tom swallowed a bit of bile as he was enveloped in familial love and fondness, fierce protectiveness, and pride. Hermione was to him as his sister was, adored and watched over but never coveted and never objectified. He wished for her happiness, her freedom, her utmost fulfillment, but he did not wish to have her for his own.

Although the sensation was distinctly uncomfortable for the Dark Lord, he pushed on the emotion anyway, making absolutely sure that there was no deceit here; no yearning or longing hidden beneath the superficial. He found nothing.

Tom brutally pushed the feelings away, feeling the distinct need to wipe his palms on his trousers to clean them after such an experience. Instead, he glanced around the ravaged mind he occupied quickly, noting the incorporeal blood oozing from the area due to his viciousness and the figurative contusions all around him.

Antonin would survive, surely, and suffer no loss of sanity or intelligence, but a properly shredded brain was even more painful than a crucio. He was likely to be quite ill for the next few days.

He had planned a bit more torture on his departure for the man's failure to inform him of the failures of the Morsmordre, or more specifically, for creating a situation where Antonin was unable to inform him, but he had been more brutal than he intended in his explorations. Perhaps, he considered, this was punishment enough.

Quickly, Tom pulled himself from the other man's mind and stifled the feeling of being dirtied after being suffused in his lackey's emotions. While it was distasteful, he would not show his disgust to his follower. To do so would be to highlight a weakness and he would never do such a thing willingly.

Antonin collapsed face-first on the ground when Tom released his hair, unable to hold his weight. He grunted in dulled pain as his nose broke on the impact, causing Tom to sigh at the inconvenience and nudge the other man with his foot until he rolled over.

He flicked his wrist, causing his wand to slide from his forearm holster and into his hand.

"Episkey," he said firmly, ignoring the additional grunt of discomfort as Antonin's nose quickly reset. "There will be no bleeding on my floor."

Dolohov's eyes remained closed as he panted until Tom nudged him again with his shoe, fighting back a grimace of distaste at the pathetic state of the man. He waited for the wizard's gaze to focus on him before he casually pointed his wand at the man sprawled out on his floor.

"This evening is not to be spoken of to anyone, little mouse," Tom said smoothly, kicking Antonin's side once more when the man's attention looked to waver. "It would have such a negative effect on our relationship if I felt that I could not trust you any further. After all, we already have quite a bit of built in betrayal on your side of things, now don't we?"

Dolohov swallowed and blinked rapidly, forcing his stare to meet Tom's as his throat worked. "I am sorry, my Lord," he said hoarsely, tears streaming involuntarily down his cheeks as he spoke through the pain.

"That means very little to me, Mouseling," Tom murmured, looking him up and down before taking a step backwards. "I expect you will do better, or- Well."

Choosing to let the unspoken promise hang in the air, the Dark Lord turned away and walked to his desk, settling himself into the chair behind it again as he adjusted his cufflinks. Antonin curled into a ball on the rug as Tom summoned the fire whiskey once more, pouring himself a full glass and taking a deep drink of it.

"Gilmy?" he said softly, waiting until the little creature popped into the room with quivering ears.

"See that Lord Dolohov finds his way back to Dolohov Manor and then check on the Mistress to ensure she is quite well," he ordered. "Inform her that I will be taking dinner in my study this evening and will see her when it is time to retire. My... activities this evening are not be mentioned to her."

"Yes, Master," the elf answered, moving to place a small palm on Antonin's shoulder before they both disappeared with a crack.

Silence permeated the room as a moment passed, then another, broken only by the crackling of the fire. With precision, Tom set his glass down and leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his palms as he inhaled sharply. He aggressively ran his fingers through hair, yanking on the strands in his fervor before swiftly moving to his feet. His fingers twitched as he strode to the front of his desk and began pacing, back and forth, and finally the wall he had temporarily built was allowed to break. The memory of his wife's admission came rushing into his consciousness, choking him in its intensity.

" _I will never forgive myself for the way I fell in love with Tom..."_

She loved him. His Gaza. His Deliciae. His Valkyrie and his little wife; she had fallen in love with him.

Fuck. Wasn't that supposed to cause revulsion to race up his spine? Wasn't he supposed to despise her for the weakness, and worse, for it to be directed at him?

He rolled his neck as he stomped forward, yanking on the strands of his hair again as indecipherable feelings raced through him.

He'd had people fear him, oh yes; hate him, without a doubt or reservation. There had been admiration, jealousy, lust, and covetousness. There had been submission, uncertainty, devotion, and even, on rare occasion, ambivalence directed at Tom.

But never love. Love was not for men like him and _he did not want it._

And no, he did not mean that in the way that men who are ill-loved and ill-used convince themselves they do not desire what they actually crave. He did not mean that he had given up on finding love or that he thought he was unworthy or any other pathetic, untrue explanation of why he had never wished to be loved.

What Tom meant when he said he did not want love is that he unequivocally and without question found the emotion to be absolutely detestable. Real love, 'true' love was the death of reason, the death of intelligence, and because of that, the death of the person who felt it eventually.

And yet...

And yet, his Gaza's love felt like something different entirely.

The thought that she would love him, without her permission, without her desire to do so and in spite of how her morality made her detest his choices was so-

It was so-

Sweet. Succulent, even, and delicious. Her love felt like the finest of wines, the softest of silks, the feel of her throat around his cock and the clench of her fingers in his hair.

Her love and the way it was pulled from her, the way she did not want to give it and yet it had been given anyway, made him groan for the want of it. She was HIS, had been for quite a while now, but there was nothing else for her to keep from him now. He owned her in her entirety when she fell in love with him against her will.

If his Deliciae had not made a choice to give him her love, then she could not make a choice to take it away. He could have it, have her, forever.

Tom pressed his palms up against the mantle above the fireplace, hanging his head between his forearms as he was overwhelmed by the fierce possessiveness and something approaching joy that sang through his body.

Forever. And not just her body, her presence; that was assured from the Aeternum Adstringo. Not just her soul, which was bound to his now. He had her heart; something he had never even thought to desire but would now never surrender all the same. He owned it and it was his and Tom Riddle took care of what was his.

Love remained a foreign concept to Tom; one he experienced in the minds of others but had never felt within himself. But he did not lie to himself and what he felt for his Gaza, the way he NEEDED her submission, her words, every little piece of her to be his and his alone-

It was something very much like love, if one turned it inside out and upside down and did not allow it the usual destruction of self. Maybe it was love; only in the profane, only in its inverse.

He licked his lips, straightening up from his position as he stared deeply into the fire.

"She was like me in lineaments," he murmured, reciting the poem quietly to the empty room as his gaze stayed fixed upon the flame.

"- her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone  
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;  
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;  
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,  
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind  
To comprehend the universe: nor these  
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,  
Pity, and smiles, and tears- which I had not;  
And tenderness- but that I had for her;  
Humility- and that I never had.  
Her faults were mine- her virtues were her own..."

Tom trailed off, swallowing back the last line as he moved away from the fireplace and back towards his desk. He straightened his shoulders as he stared at the parchments and half-formed plans that littered the surface.

Enough thought had been given to other things today. There was work to be done.

 **AN: The poem, in its entirety, is by Lord George Byron and is as follows:**

 **"She was like me in lineaments- her eyes**  
 **Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone**  
 **Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;**  
 **But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;**  
 **She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,**  
 **The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind**  
 **To comprehend the universe: nor these**  
 **Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,**  
 **Pity, and smiles, and tears- which I had not;**  
 **And tenderness- but that I had for her;**  
 **Humility- and that I never had.**  
 **Her faults were mine- her virtues were her own-**  
 **I loved her, and destroy'd her!"**


	28. Hiatus

**AN: Thank you all for your patience! I had a few ideas on how Book One was going to end and they were, unfortunately, contradictory. I finally sorted things out though, and I can say Book One is 2 chapters from finishing, after this one. Also, this chapter contains a bit of smut for you, so hopefully that makes up in a tiny way for the tardiness. Thanks again, my very best of readers!**

At half-past ten, Hermione sat in front of her vanity in their bedchamber, removing the pins from her hair one by one and setting them aside. Her husband had chosen not to join her for dinner, immersed in some dark plot or another no doubt, and so she had thrown herself into her rune study as a distraction before retiring to their room and donning her dressing gown.

Of course, she was perfectly capable of spelling her hair clean of all pins and some nights she did just that. For now, though, the monotonous, muggle way of doing it was soothing to her nerves and her hair had been fixed this morning with an inordinate amount of accoutrements, so she slowly and methodically continued with her task.

Movement caught the corner of her eye, directing her gaze to the side of her mirror where Tom's form suddenly appeared in the doorway. She offered him a small smile of greeting before turning away and pulling another pin.

There was a momentary breath where she could feel Tom's eyes on her, then another, before his shoes were whispering on the wood floor as he strode towards her with purpose. Hermione hardly had time to raise an eyebrow in question before she was hoisted unceremoniously from her stool with a barely repressed squeak of surprise.

Her hands pulled themselves from her hair to settle on Tom's shoulders in an attempt to maintain some balance as he turned her quickly to face him. His eyes, smoldering and dark, bored into hers as he bent at the knees and his palms fell to grip the back of her thighs.

"Tom, what are you-"

Her voice cut to a gasp as he lifted her, settling her bottom along the top of the vanity and sliding her back whilst hairpins scattered carelessly across the floor and her book of charms fell with a loud thump in the wake of her arse.

Before she could sort out whether she was annoyed or something else entirely in the wake of Tom's aggressive action, Hermione felt that all-too-familiar grip in her curls. Her husband's fingers burrowed past the halfway done style and tethered her where he wanted her, forcing her face up to his at an angle before he descended on her mouth without preamble.

She froze, momentarily unsure whether to melt into him or stay immobile while her mind caught up before his tongue pried her lips apart and he roughly licked at the roof of her mouth. Tom's groan of gratification had her own fingers tangling in his hair without her permission and her body arching as arousal raced down her spine, warmth pooling within her body as she forgot her uncertainty and began the slow, customary process of drowning in all that Tom Riddle could offer.

His free hand fell to her outer thigh, pushing the dressing gown up to expose the legs that currently cradled him whilst he bit down hard on Hermione's lip. Pain was lost to her, but sensation was not, so she whimpered into his mouth, tugging roughly on the dark, dark locks between her fingers in revenge and shivering at the growl of satisfaction the act earned her.

Tom leaned close, thrusting minutely into the space between her legs as his mouth fell to her shoulder where her covering had slipped to expose tender, vulnerable skin. There he applied teeth and tongue until purple and red bloomed harshly across the flesh, pushing his cock up against her every few moments in delicious ways that had Hermione throwing her head back and biting her lips to keep from moaning aloud too early.

Vaguely, she was aware of him mumbling nonsense into her skin as he went, his words muffled around the abuse he was subjecting her exposed skin to. She heard "Valkyrie" and "little wife" a few times, but most prevalent were the muttered oaths of ownership.

"Mine," Tom growled, mouth fixed firmly on the meat of the muscle above her collar bone where he bit down harshly and worried the mouthful between his teeth. A sigh of pleasure escaped her on Tom's next thrust and he seemed to lose his restraint entirely.

He sidestepped impatiently around the vanity, pulling her with him until she sat sideways across the top with him still nestled between her thighs. A palm grasped her throat without warning, pushing her back until she laid out like an offering, thighs splayed wide by Tom's hips and her right side bracketed by the mirror. Her husband's free hand clawed up her inner thigh until it reached her knickers, his fingers catching in the material and shredding them with a single, violent movement.

"Merlin, _Tom_ -" she murmured, overwhelmed by his actions as arousal and a taste of danger seemed to permeate the air all around them.

He didn't respond to her, releasing Hermione's throat as he dropped swiftly to his knees and without warning or asking for permission, he was there. She cried out as he licked inside her brutally, working her up into a frenzy without pause and pushing, pushing, pushing until she veritably was thrown from the edge.

Her first orgasm had not begun to fade when Tom's hand snaked up her front and forced its way inside her open dressing gown and past her nightdress, plucking roughly at the buds of her nipples until she felt like her whole world was spinning apart.

Sex with Tom had never been tender. It had always been a power play and even when it was intimate, it was never making love. Always with Tom, sex was- Was- ...fucking. But this was something more brutal, more primal than she had experienced before and, as a second release was pulled from her body, Hermione thought wildly that it was equal parts terrifying and enthralling.

Not unlike Tom himself, if she was honest. His teeth bit around her oversensitive flesh and even though pain was denied her, the overabundance of sensation forced a tight scream from her throat.

Tom must have liked that because his dark eyes fluttered shut from where they had been boring into her own and he buried his face more fully between her legs. His hands clutched roughly at her hips as if he believed she might try to pull away and he had no intention of letting her escape his hold. A third orgasm was building in her belly, coiling tighter and tighter, and her body twisted aimlessly in a bid to escape and simultaneously to push herself closer to his mouth.

Her back arched off the top of the vanity and no sound escaped her as her third orgasm raced through her, muscles twitching in ecstasy and exhaustion as her body fought again the rising tide of pleasure. When she collapsed back, boneless and sated, Tom finally rose to his feet and stared down at her exposed body. The sound of harsh panting filled the room as he studied her, from her sweaty, frizzed hair to the flush spread all the way to her belly, even further down until his eyes lingered between her legs.

Hermione watched with tired, hooded eyes as his hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly before he pushed his trousers and pants down his thighs just far enough to free his cock. She would have laughed at the indignity of it, the state of the Dark Lord as he pulled her down effortlessly and flipped her onto her stomach, had she been capable of more movement and thought than a bowl of jello.

A loud keen escaped her throat when her oversensitive nipples pressed against the cold top of the vanity, but Tom did not pause as he slid inside without warning and stood for a moment simply grinding the length of him into her. His fingers gripped onto her hips implacably as he began to thrust, hard and fast with no thoughts now for anything but chasing his own pleasure. The whole vanity moved with the force of it and Hermione whimpered into her hands at the feeling, little trickles of pleasure forcing their way sluggishly through her as she lay boneless beneath him.

The blood in her ears was pounding so hard that she didn't hear the things he was mumbling until Tom wrenched her up and forced her back to his chest, hips still pushing forward without fail as he buried his head in her shoulder.

"Gonna make you a queen," Tom groaned, his movement beginning to stutter as his orgasm loomed before him. "Make you a goddess... Gonna fuck you, adore you, own you forever..."

Hermione gasped with unexpected tears leaking down her face, overwhelmed as he came with his palm at her throat and his face in her hair, whispering all of the ways that she was his, always his and only his.

Tom stayed buried inside her as he caught his breath, stroking along her hair in soothing motions as she shivered. Her muscles and heart felt weakened, unable to stand or breath with the force of how strongly he had 'loved' her. Not that he did, he didn't love her, wasn't capable, but this had felt so strong, so intimate, so-

Without saying anything else, Tom turned her and picked her up, murmuring a wandless cleaning spell around a satisfied smirk as he carried her over and deposited her in the bed. His body curled around her as it always did and it wasn't long before her husband drifted into a deep sleep.

Rest abandoned her that night.

* * *

The next few days, Tom was absent quite a bit. His days at work were normally spaced out so that he rarely worked two in a row, but he murmured absentminded things about complications and things to discuss within the Death Eater organization as he readied himself each day. To Hermione's increasing frustration, he dodged her questions at breakfast as to what, precisely, needed addressing, telling her only that he'd confide more to her once he had sorted it out.

When she pointed out that she was second in the hierarchy and therefore demanded to know, he simply smiled that condescending, fond smile and told her second was not first before kissing her on the head and retreating out to wherever it was he was going.

It was all she could do not to scream in frustration. She hoped, for a petty moment, that her upset was making his chest ache but the devotion entreaty made her feel guilty for the thought so she tried to simply ignore his absence instead; it's not as if she did not have work to do herself, after all. This willful ignorance to the passing of days was how she found herself sighing, seated in front of Tom for their morning meal with a Daily Prophet informing her that the date was December 27th.

Her husband glanced at her over the edge of his own paper, a perfect eyebrow lifting as he made a vague inquiring noise as to her frustration.

"We've missed Christmas, Tom," she said quietly, setting the paper down before picking up her fork to push listlessly at her eggs. "I haven't celebrated a proper Christmas since I was 16 or 17, but I used to love them. At least, before the war and then being alone at Hogwarts for years. I had thought we would maybe do something this year but..."

The paper folded slightly to reveal Tom's face as he stared at her with a bemused expression.

"You wished to celebrate a holiday with the Dark Lord, little wife?"

She huffed. "No, I wished to celebrate Christmas with my husband: Tom Riddle," she corrected, only realizing it was perhaps a silly distinction to make after the words were already out. She may love him and he may be more than the sum of his choices to her, but he was never _not_ the Dark Lord. The upturn of his lips suggested he was thinking something similar and Hermione felt herself bristle.

"Well, we can celebrate the New Year, at any rate," Tom interrupted before she could respond with a sulky comment she'd likely regret later, smoothing out the Prophet as he laid it down and picked up his coffee cup. "Perhaps we'll have a Yule celebration next year, but this year, January 1st will find us immortal, Deliciae."

He granted her a smoldering smile of satisfaction that caused an involuntary blush to flare across her cheeks before she looked away and pointedly took a sip of her own mug.

"Speaking of," he continued, "how goes your continued study into the Philosopher's stone? As I said, I intend for us to perform the ritual in 5 days' time, at the turn of the year, and there are still materials to be gathered before then and the room to set up. Have you made any preparations?"

"I have," she confirmed, leaning forward as her eyes sparked with interest at the chance to share her academic success with someone who would appreciate it. "As you know, the directions are less than clear and open somewhat to interpretation, but I've sorted it out and have a list of necessary ingredients to purchase whenever we get to Diagon and Knockturn. Gilmy has completely cleared out the storage room and I'm purifying it today using sandalwood, star anise, and wormwood."

"And from a technical alchemical perspective, we've access to all the necessary ingredients?" Tom inquired, taking a small bite of sausage and chewing as he watched her.

"Oh yes," she assured him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "There are different techniques and powders and potion's ingredients to complete each of the necessary steps to create a stone which can turn lead to gold, as well as the additional immortality ritual, but none of the components should be impossible to find between multiple apothecaries. In fact, I think we _should_ visit multiple shops anyway in order to keep anyone from having a record of all of the purchases we make in order to construct this."

"Well, I leave this in your capable hands, Gaza," Tom said smoothly, standing from the table and fixing his cufflinks. "Floo the mouseling and have him join you on the shopping trip. I finished with him yesterday and he seems to have recovered from his mysterious bout of illness."

"Antonin was sick?" Hermione asked fretfully, rising with him as she took a step in Tom's direction and worried at her lip.

Tom glanced at her, annoyance flashing across his face so quickly she almost missed it before he shook his head minutely and stepped towards her. His hands landed on her upper arms and he pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her unruly curls as his palms smoothed up her shoulders and around her throat.

"Indeed, he suffered for a time," Tom confirmed, dropping a lingering kiss to her lips before pulling back to stare into her eyes. "He's quite well now, however. I assure you."

She nodded, biting once more at her bottom lip only to have Tom lean forward and pull it free with his own teeth. His tongue swiped along the flesh, soothing the place where it would normally sting before he released her with a fond, dark grin and began to make his way to the door.

"Wait!" she called after him, hurrying towards the exit where he stalled in the door frame and turned towards her with an expectant look. "Don't you want to check on my progress? I can show you my notes on the Philosopher's stone before I purchase the materials, ensure that you agree with my assessment?"

Tom offered her a small smile before turning away again and proceeding out the door. "I trust your judgment, Gaza," he called over his shoulder.

Hermione's mouth gaped open as she stared after him, shocked and smugly pleased at his confidence in her abilities before hurrying after him to head to her study. He stopped once more in the entrance hall before turning and giving her a considering look as she began to head for the stairs.

At the strange glint in his eye, Hermione stalled as well.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm marking Epona Selwyn today," he said conversationally, studying her face intently as her lip found its way between her teeth once more. "It's an interesting process, one you have not been privy to before in this time. I presume you did not see it in your timeline either."

"I did not," she confirmed quietly, shifting on her feet as she broke eye contact to glance past him.

"Do you wish to come?" he inquired, taking a step towards her as she began shaking her head before he even finished the question.

"I- No," she stuttered out, feeling foolish even as she clasped her hands in front of her to keep from shaking. "I know, being second in the organization as I am and taking a more active role, that I need to understand the process sometime soon. But after what just happened with Corvus..."

She trailed off, unsure how to finish, but Tom nodded slightly.

"You do not want to see more anguish so soon."

"Yes," she whispered, closing her eyes on the weakness. While understandable to her mind, she did not want to see or hear her husband's disapproval of her 'tedious morality' again.

"Disappointing, but understandable," was all he said before moving to leave.

Hermione's eyes shot open and her mouth was moving before she even knew what she was going to say. "You should really reconsider the placement, though, since so few people are marked as of yet."

He froze, turning to stare at her with dark eyes. He raised a hand for her to continue and she made a helpless, aborted gesture with her own fingers.

"It's just-"

Hermione took a deep breath, reminding herself that she had committed and the Death Eaters were hers now too and it would not do to have them be inefficient or undermined if they were hers.

"Everyone occasionally sees forearms, Tom," she told him, pointing at her own exposed rune scaring as an example. "You make your people easily recognizable by a marking that anyone could see by mistake. Why not do it somewhere that very few people would ever be privy to, like the lower back or the inner thigh?"

Her lips pursed as she considered, bringing a hand up to run through her unruly curls.

"Furthermore, you need some sort of built-in fail-safe that causes the mark to disappear upon death," she said slowly, head tilting as she truly considered the possibilities. "It's hugely inefficient that your enemies are not only _aware_ of how to identify members of an allegedly secret organization, but know the exact 'brand,' at it were, and where to locate it. If it disintegrated somehow when death occurred and your lackeys were cautious to charm away the evidence of the Dark Mark before exposing their intimate bodies to people whose loyalties were unknown, the discovery of this identifying mark might be able to be avoided entirely."

"Anything else you wish to share, little Gaza?" Tom asked, looking at her with an unreadable expression in his eye. "Any additional insights into my Dark Mark?"

Her mind immediately went to the conversation with her sworn wizard and the implications of the Dark Mark bond as secondary. Her eyes flashed to Tom as he watched her expectantly while she ran through the scenarios in which she would know such a thing, how to tell him the truth about the mark without exposing Antonin to undue scrutiny. After a moment to consider her options, she found no way to do so.

So with the honesty entreaty chaining her, Hermione answered very carefully.

"There are no other ideas I wish to share about the Dark Mark," she said slowly. "I would encourage you to consider reexamining the entire curse for weaknesses, especially if you take my suggestion to move the location and add in an if-then clause in case of death. You never know what you might have missed."

Tom looked at her intently, his lips ticking up in a pleased, little smirk before he nodded once more.

"Goodbye, little wife," he murmured, turning once more towards the door and taking a step outside. "I'll return this evening."

A crack sounded and Tom was gone from the stoop. Hermione stared at the area he disappeared from for a moment before she turned back towards the staircase and moved quickly towards her study, gathering the list of necessary materials and spelling the parchment unreadable with the charm Tom had taught her. Afterward, she deposited her research into her beaded bag and headed to her bedroom to select an outfit for the day.

While part of her still despised the trappings of pureblood society in the 1950s, she was quickly coming to understand the importance of projecting a certain image. The Death Eaters were still relatively unknown, but if she wanted to successfully stage a political coup without causing an outright war, they wouldn't be for long. As Tom's wife and second in command, people would want to see a certain kind of woman.

She may recoil from the idea of dressing herself up like a beautiful, gentle pureblood prize broodmare, but she'd do it to ensure less bloodshed and the prosperity of wizarding Britain. For this reason, she carefully chose an entirely appropriate short sleeve wool dress, tailored to hug her figure in a way that was flattering but not risqué. The blocky shapes in varying shades of gray and blue, as well as a very small strip of gauzy material, added interest and sophistication to the classic cut, managing to be appealing to both an older and younger audience. A set of sheer stockings and pair of cream, pointed toe heels completed the look, and while she would have strongly preferred flats, the proper charms made her feet feel almost as if she was wearing tennis shoes anyway.

Almost.

Although she usually avoided charming her hair straight, as much like muggle hair products the process itself was damaging, she allowed herself the luxury today of easily tamed hair. With the last preparation done, she secured and disillusioned her wand in a forearm holster and headed towards the floo.

Taking a pinch of the powder, she tossed it quickly into the fire.

"Dolohov Manor," Hermione called out, stepping into the green flames with her beaded bag clutched securely between her fingers.

She arrived in the sitting room much more gracefully than before, striding across the space and into the hallway.

"Myshka!" Hermione shouted from the entryway, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floor as she crossed to the stairs.

Antonin appeared on the landing, still in his pajamas as he moved down the stairs to greet her.

"Kotik?" he asked with a smile, leaning down to pull her into a hug before leaning back slightly with his arms still secured around Hermione's waist to stare into her eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I heard you were ill," she said in lieu of answering his question, reaching a hand up to finger the collar of Antonin's striped pajama shirt with a wry grin. "What ailed you? Are you well now?"

Hermione frowned as his face closed off with an almost audible snap and Antonin released her, taking a few steps back as he began to move towards the kitchen. She followed on his heels, disconcerted with his change in demeanor and ready to inquire further before he cut her off with his answer.

"I'm not sure what was wrong, really," he said dismissively, flicking his wand to start the tea kettle as he moved towards the cabinets. "But whatever it was, I'm completely fine now. Would you like a tea or coffee?"

Sliding into a seat at the small kitchen table, Hermione shook her head and eyed Antonin suspiciously.

"You seem very hesitant to discuss this with me," she said slowly, smoothing her hands along the table as he stomped around the kitchen and kept his face resolutely turned away. "I feel like there is more to it than what you're telling me and I- Well, I'm worried, Antonin. I care about you. Deeply. If something is wrong, I-"

She paused, unsure how to continue, before letting her eyes close in frustration.

"Just please don't shut me out."

A sigh had her eyes snapping open once more to the sight of Antonin staring at her over his shoulder with a tender, sad look. He crossed the room in a few strides and kneeled beside her, pulling her around so she sat sideways in the chair as he clutched at her hands.

"We all have our secrets, Kotik," he said quietly, reaching a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Even me. Even me from you. Allow me my privacy and my pride, my Lady; I swear to you that I am no longer ill or in pain."

Hermione stared in his dark eyes, at once so similar and so different from her husband's, and slowly nodded. He was right. While she could probably use their bond to compel him to tell her whatever he was keeping from her, it would be an abuse of her power and the trust he so readily placed in her hands. Antonin was entitled to keep his own counsel; he did not owe her all of his secrets.

Her sworn wizard's smile was gentle as he rose up and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before resuming his morning routine. The tension cleared as they chatted amicably about nonsense subjects, purposefully keeping the conversation light in the wake of the earlier conflict.

"You never did tell me why you are here, my Lady," Antonin said, moving to rinse his cup and place it in the sink. "While you are always welcome, am I right in assuming there was a purpose to your visit this morning?"

"Yes, actually," Hermione conceded with a slightly bemused frown, picking at the wood of the table with her fingernails. "Tom seems to believe I am incapable of navigating Diagon Alley on my own and has insisted you be my escort for a shopping trip. It didn't actually occur to me to ask him why earlier, but now I find myself quite confused and a little putout, if I'm being honest."

Antonin snorted a laugh as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as he eyed her with a teasing glint in his eye.

"And am I such awful company that you are offended by his insistence I accompany you?"

Hermione flushed. "No, of course not! It's just-"

"I am your sworn wizard," he interrupted, suddenly serious and stern in a way that had her spine straightening and her jaw tightening in defiance on instinct. "It is my job to guard you and serve you in any way that is required, up to and including giving my life for yours. Ensuring your safety on an outing is the least of my duties."

"I am perfectly capable of ensuring my own safety," she informed him, standing from the table and smoothing down the skirt of her dress in a gesture of irritation, "though I thank you ever so much for your faith in my abilities."

Antonin tilted his head as he gazed at her for a moment in consideration before sighing and looking away. "I have no basis on which to judge your abilities, Kotik," he explained, "but even if I did, it would not matter. My service and devotion are not contingent on your skills or lack thereof."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, once more, that she was a formidable witch and completely not in need of protection, but he cut her off.

"Based on your marriage to my Lord, I think it is safe to assume that you are magically superior indeed," he told her, crossing the room and settling his hands on her shoulders. "But you are important, and your importance to the Dark Lord only continues to increase as days pass. To watch you together is to see that where once Tom was obsidian, he now has cracks made of glass. Consider my protection of you, in truth, protection of him. He will never admit such out loud and would likely murder me for recognizing it, so I beg you not to share this with him, but your loss would not bode well for his stability. He needs you now. So while I will always be disposable, you, unequivocally, are not."

"But-"

Antonin sighed. "Why are you such a poor listener?" he murmured, ignoring the way she bristled under his fingers and glared at him. " _Please_ hear me, Kotik. You are trying to temper Tom's worst impulses, are you not?"

She considered denying it in some way, just out of sheer pettiness, but eventually, Hermione nodded.

"You have not succeeded so far because of choices you have made or arguments you have presented," he said firmly, leaning down to stare sternly into her face. "You have succeeded because you are the very thing that tempers him. Without your presence and your love _–don't scrunch your nose like that, you know that you love him-_ all of the violence and the hatred and the blood that permeated your world comes back tenfold. To have you and to lose you will be so much worse than never having you. So you must be safe, Kotik. We must be ridiculous and overzealous in your security."

She began to make one last, feeble protest, but his grip on her shoulders tightened and Antonin shook her gently, just once, and her mouth snapped shut at the fervent, feverish look in his eyes.

"What have I told you, my Lady? 'Better to destroy everything than surrender her.' Tom will tear this world down around us should he ever think to lose you. He will go mad with it. If you will accept my protection for no other reason, then at least accept it for the safety of the rest of us."

Hermione slumped in Antonin's grasp and nodded her assent. While she didn't believe that Tom's feelings ran anywhere near that deep, her wizard clearly did and there was obviously nothing to be said to dissuade him.

Antonin offered her a pained smile, as if he knew many, many things she did not, and ignored her questioning glance as he finally released her.

"Allow me to dress, Kotik," he said, walking with purpose towards the doorway, "and then we will get you anything you need."

Hermione sighed but said nothing. She seriously doubted they sold the clarity on this whole, strange morning she currently desperately needed in Knockturn Alley.


End file.
